


Falling for Superman.

by Little_sparrow



Category: Man of Steel (2013), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Aliens, Attempted Kidnapping, Awkwardness, Birds, Cars, Cat-faced-nurses., F/M, Fast Food, Frank Sinatra - Freeform, Frogs, Halloween, Hospitals, I've discovered tagging is fun!, Lamas, Medication, Midnight, Picaso, Screaming, Slapping, Spandex, Street lamp, beetles, falling, heights, poor grammar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_sparrow/pseuds/Little_sparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A beautiful day, lazy traffic and a handsome chap. What more could a girl want?.... Other than not plummeting to her death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/Kudos/all feedback would REALLY be appreciated!
> 
> As always, enjoy! 
> 
> `Little Sparrow.

It was a beautiful sunny afternoon in New York. The sky was a magnificent deep blue, with a few lazy white clouds slowly drifting across the horizon like meandering sheep. From my dramatically high vantage point, I could see the wide spectrum of assorted cars moving slowly about, as the generally do on a Sunday. They reminded me of the pet beatles I used to dig up from my backyard and keep in a jar as my pets. The distant wailing of police sirens, and their flashing lights, did very little to detract from the wonder of the day.

I noticed that even the birds seemed to be enjoying the gorgeous weather. They sang and swooped about in graceful arcs, back and forth between window ledges. Whether they ever did pause in curiosity to watch me, as I hurtled past them, my arms flailing about desperately and my legs kicking out uselessly, I’ll never know. 

Despite all this, I couldn’t bring myself to care, even the slightest how amazing the sky looked, or how wonderful the birds sounded as the flittered to and fro. In fact, there was very little at this point in time that could improve my gloomy mood. 

Except of course, having just been pushed off the very top of the Bank of New York, to be doing anything other than falling 50 meters per second through the air. That’d be really nice actually, and I have no doubt it would improve my day immeasurably. To say that I really wasn’t looking forward to resembling some 3D impression of one of Picasso’s famous pieces, on the pavement rushing up to meet me, was definitely understating how I felt at that particular point in time.

I stopped wailing like a banshee momentarily to draw in a huge lungful of air, before once again resuming my ungodly screaming.

I must have been a sight to see. Hundreds of people had gathered on the opposite side of the street to watch, their hands covering their faces in shock. I was never sure if that was because I was falling to my death, or because of how I looked as was falling to my death, and yes, before you ask, there is a difference.

There was none of that stereotypical damsel in distress stuff displayed by me that day. There were no billowing white dresses, or angelically lustrous golden trestles framing a dazzlingly pretty face, or musical squeal of fear. Oh no, I was having none of that crap. Like I said, my feet kicked out and my hands flapped up and down pointlessly outstretched at my sides, as if I could some how take off like a bird and get myself out of the messy situation, that was sure to follow. My hair whipped about my face, lashing into my eyes and mouth, so I was both temporarily blinded and choking on my own hair at the same time. I was genuinely surprised my screaming didn’t crack the glass in the windows. 

So, there I was, about to die. Admittedly, doing my very darndest to ensure that everyone heard my loud protests about that, but falling to my death all the same. 

And then, suddenly, my descent began to slow. All of my weight and the inertia of my fall was eased, as two large hands gripped onto me by the sleeves of my cotton cardigan. I gawked in shock. 

I was staring into the most brilliant, electric blue eyes I had ever seen. In fact, I was staring into the most handsome face I’d ever seen this close before. Somehow, the man, Superman (if you hadn’t already guessed), was facing me, his body perfectly horizontal in front of me, his large spandex clad frame completely blocking my view of the sky, and his brow furrowed in concentration.

I momentarily stopped screaming, left completely breathless and thankful when I realized what was happening. Hope unfurled in me like a glorious rose, its delicate petals spreading open to greet with joy the powerful sun above itself. 

Then, with a loudly audible ripping sound, the sleeves which my rescuer was gripping so firmly, ripped, cleanly and completely away from the rest of my cardigan. 

Yep, you heard me, it ripped. Seam from seam, thread from thread, fibre from fibre. It tore right off. And what significance did that have, I hear you asking? Well, only the difference between my life and death, I tell you!

I screamed, in outrage and horror, as I watched Superman continue to hold the sleeves of my grey cardigan, his face one of complete surprise. He looked almost comically actually, the two pieces of material flapping from his clenched hands bizarrely in the wind. 

I again fell towards the pavement. It was alarmingly close now, I must have been around 40 metres from the ground and narrowing. 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That was it. I was going to die. Any chance I had of surviving was completely thwarted, and now, all I could think of was my pet beetles. Not the pavement, not Superman, not my family, not my damn dog, oh no, I thought about the pet beetles I used to have as a kid. Maybe it was actually a blessing I was going to die; one less nutter out in the world I suppose. 

And then I felt my back hit two bars that felt like steel, and I knew I must have hit the pavement, or maybe a lamp post above the pavement. I continued screaming, knowing that I was dead. 

Except that I was screaming. I. Was. Screaming. I stopped screaming, and realized that I had been screaming. Surely that could only mean one thing? 

One after the other, I nervously opened my eyes, after all, I had already thought that I had escaped death once today, and that had been frustrated, who’s to say it wouldn’t happen again? 

Superman’s amazing blue eyes stared down intently into my unbelieving face. It was his two arms that had caught me and felt like two metal poles. He held me bridal style, one of my hands resting against the strange “S” symbol emblazoned on his chest, as we hovered 3 meters above the ground. He continued to look at me, his chest slowly rising up and down in a calming sort of way beneath my fingertips.

At that moment I felt anything but calm. I shouted out the first thing that came to my adrenalin fueled brain, my voice hoarse and cracking, my cheeks flushed bright red in confused agitation. 

“WHY THE HELL DIDN’T YOU CATCH ME LIKE THIS IN THE FIRST PLACE?!” 

I had lifted my neck up off his forearm, and now glared at him furiously, my mind somehow skittering about in every possible direction it could find. 

Superman’s eyebrows rose up in astonishment, and then, no, that wasn’t possible! The largest, most mirth-filled smile spread across his features, and I began to feel his whole body shake up and down, as his head tilted back, and flashing me those stunning white teeth, he full heartedly laughed. 

As in, this was no silly little giggle, or smothered chuckle, this was an outright, ridiculously loud laugh. My scream, which had been loud enough to wake the dead, was nothing compared to this; it was absolutely outrageous. 

At first my nose crinkled up in indignation, and I tripped over my own tongue, trying to think of something to scold him adequately, and then the sides of my mouth quirked up in a wry smile, acknowledging that maybe my reaction could be considered amusing. And then I was laughing too, with just as much gusto as he, my head thrown back, and my lungs pinching in protest in their already worn state. 

Superman’s feet touched the ground gently, and he easily maneuvered me around, so that my feet touched the ground and I rested almost completely against that fantastic chest of his. I trembled uncontrollably, and I could barely hear the thundering applause from the onlooking crowd surrounding us, since my own rushing heartbeat blocked most of it out. 

All at once I was laughing, crying and trembling uncontrollably. If it wasn’t for the strong arms that pulled me tightly against my rescuer, I probably would have melted then and there into a pile of sniveling mess on the blessedly solid ground beneath me. 

Even after his laughing had subsided he continued to hold me for a few moments, and I felt his chest rumble before I heard him quietly ask, his mouth close to my ear, whether or not I was all-right to stand by myself. I took in a ragged breath, squeezed my eyes shut, and nodded slowly. 

He stepped back, and strangely I felt like I was falling again. I could only stare at him, probably looking exactly like one of picasso's artworks anyhow. 

A genuine, and protective look of concern was written across his features, and I saw him swallow. 

He smiled dryly, and said, loud enough so that I, and the crowd could hear, “Remind me to buy you a new cardigan sometime.”

The people around me laughed in delight, and the air rustled my hair once again as he took off, to an uproar of cheers from the crowd. 

I swallowed dryly, before feeling the loving arms of my sister engulf me.


	2. Welcome to Fantastic Fries.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are fries, spandex, rain, more spandex, a broken car handle, an angry hero, freak-outs, and even more spandex. Also, you may never think of public transport the same way again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone for reviewing and Kudos-ing! 

“Hi and Welcome to Fantastic Fries, where the fries are always fresh. How can I help you?” I deadpanned. 

The sweaty, obese man squinted through his green tinsel glasses frame. “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” He mumbled, pointing a pudgy red finger at me. 

“No.” I shot back, knowing what was coming anyway.

“You’re that girl that was on camera the other day. You know, the one who fell of the building.” He began to laugh, or wheeze animatedly, whichever one you prefer to think of it as. 

“I thought you were gonna die. Then, I swear, I’ve never seen anything funnier, when Superman grabbed you, and your jacket ripped like that, I thought you were gonna die again.” His whole body, which was currently covered in red spandex, began to jiggle up and down as he laughed. 

How stupid of me not to realise that watching someone almost die, twice, was funny. I barely restrained a shudder. 

Spandex should be outlawed.

Trying very hard to maneuver my register’s screen so that it blocked out the main portion of his, need I remind you, spandex cover body, I sighed in resignation 

It had been two weeks since, what I was now referring to as the “Cardigan Incident” had occurred. Apparently Superman hadn’t been the only one to find the situation funny. Within hours, the story of how he had “heroically saved me” was plastered all of those annoyingly popular comedy talk shows. 

Except that wasn’t the worst part. Not only had they excluded the bit about me being used as a hostage in a bank robbery ,and being shoved off one of New York’s highest skyscrapers. It turns out that kind of news is too mundane for the rest of the citizens of this city, they instead, decided only to include the bit about me falling, then not falling, and then falling again. Oh, and then Superman’s wise crack about buying me a new cardigan. Which no one ever did, by the way. 

The video had gone viral in a matter of days. So yeah, to say I was unimpressed with being known as “The girl that fell from that building” was understating things, by a long shot. 

I gave the man a withering glare, which he seemed completely oblivious to. “Can I help you?” 

Last customer, I thought desperately. He’s the last customer I have to deal with. 

Once his laughing had subsided, and he ACTUALLY wiped a tear from his eye, I was finally able to serve him his food. 

I might have some kind of hidden superpower or something, because when I was done, I was out of that shop faster than humanly possible. 

Dashing to my car through the unusually heavy downpour, I almost slipped and fell on the oil slicked, dimly lit carpark. It goes without saying then, that I was completely oblivious to the two enormously large men leaving the shadows of the building to follow me.

I hadn’t even had the chance to jam my car keys into the door’s lock, before one of the incredibly large goons put his hand on my shoulder. Startled I screamed out, and spun around to face the them. 

I crossed my arms, entirely uncomfortable that I was alone with these two creeps in a carpark. Silently cursing that my car was parked underneath one of the many street lights that wasn’t working because it would be impossible to see me from inside the brightly lit shop. 

“Sorry fellas, I’m not working. Just finished my shift.” I said firmly. By now I’d really had enough, and all I wanted to do was hide away at home.I glanced over them, taking in their white masks, and black spandex body suits. 

Seriously, who ever thought it was a good idea to invent spandex? They should be put in prison for crimes against humanity. 

By now you're probably thinking to yourself, “What is wrong with this girl? Why on earth hasn’t she run away screaming her lungs out. We all know she can use them!”

Well, you see, today was Halloween. 

Unfortunately, I’d been seeing guys like these two walk in and out of the store all day, so even though, normally I would've high tailed it outta there, today I just stood as far away from them as a I possibly could. 

Neither of them said anything. Then, all of a sudden, they both made the mistake of lunging for me. What happened next was all a bit of a blur. 

One of them tried to grab my arm, and the other went for my hair. What they wound up getting was a fist to they eye and a kick to the crotch. At this point I let out one of my now famous screams, and as one of them realed back, and the other bent over in pain, they both visibly flinched. 

Spinning around I made to run away, but the guy I punched in the eye had made a quick recovery. I’m not even kidding when I say he bent down and picked me up while I was in mid run. 

Then I was kicking, punching, biting and scratching any part of the guy I could possibly reach. Which was a lot, judging by his howl of pain when my teeth sank into his arm. Gross, I know. At least you didn’t have to do it. Be thankful.

Then the thug dropped me, all of his 7 feet, and I somehow managed to land on my ankle. I yelped in pain and was momentarily unable to move. Taking advantage of this, my attacker turned around and kicked me in the ribs. Hard. 

At this point I began seeing stars, and heard the other guy, who I’d kneed in the crotch bark out, “Stop, we were told not to damage her.”

Then I was being lifted up again, but not before I managed to grasp the handle of the nearest car door, and clung to it with all my, albeit pathetic, strength. 

There are moments in life you’ll always remember. At 12 at night, on Halloween in Metropolis, two criminals using your body to play tug-o-war with the handle of a car is one of them. They each had one of my legs in their hands, so that my body was lifted up above the ground, and my fingers were turning white with the strain. 

Somehow, and I have no idea how, but everything I do seems to get weird, real fast. 

All of a sudden the car’s handle broke, and with a loud snap, the three of us flew backwards. I hit the ground in a mess, knocking the air out of me, and writhing in pain. I was pretty sure one of my ribs was broken, anything that hurt that much had to be. 

While I was laying dazed in a puddle, staring up at the one light in the carpark that worked, and struggling to regain my breath, I heard an oddly familiar voice. 

“Are these two men bothering you ma’am?” He practically growled. Which was odd, since he’s Superman and all. I kinda thought it was impossible to get him angry. Apparently I was wrong. I made a mental note to think that point over later in my head. 

I sat up then, my hair doing its very best impression of roadkill. Still holding the door handle, I gestured lucidly to both of them. Gasping for breath, I managed to lamely wobble my head, that yes, they were bothering me. A lot actually, but I couldn’t say that, I sort of opened and closed my mouth uselessly like a codfish. 

In a blur of blue and red Superman ran, or flew, I couldn’t tell, and within the blink of an eye, he’d picked up thug one and thug two, and was flying away with them into the night sky. Still sitting down, I squinted up into the sky, trying to see through the sheaths of Autumn rain. 

Minutes passed, and I eventually got my breath back. Still I waited, expecting Superman to suddenly appear from the sky again. 

After another good few minutes passed, I swallowed and double blinked. I felt a wave of disappointment hit me. For whatever reason, Superman wasn’t coming back. 

Until that moment I hadn’t realised that I’d still been waiting for him. I was completely drenched, sitting in the gutter of my work’s car park and alone in the rain. I wanted to cry. In fact, I already was. 

My chest felt like someone was stabbing me every time I breathed in, or out, for that matter. Slowly I began to pick myself up off the ground, beginning to feel the pain from my ankle now as well. 

My breathing hitched, as I bitterly thought about Superman. He hadn’t even recognised me, let alone come back to see if I was all right. Which, you know, I wasn’t. 

Just as I was thinking these things, I heard the soft splash of Superman landing behind me. I swiveled around, a fleeting smile crossing my face. At least now I wasn’t alone in the carpark. 

Superman looked at me gravely, seemingly assessing me from my head to my foot. It was only later that I realise, that it was in fact, exactly what he was doing. His lips tightened into a solid line, and for a few second neither of us spoke. 

Meanwhile I took the opportunity to look him over. Even though it was bucketing rain, and he should have been drenched, he looked no different than the last time I’d seen him. His hair was curled just so, and his blue eyes seemed to sparkle under the neon light. If anything his “S” symbol seemed to stand out more, as the rain made it glisten. 

I blinked and the next thing I knew Superman had swooped forwards, wrapped me in his solid, muscly arms, and I was flying in the air at speeds my car would struggle to reach even when I first bought it. 

Remember how I said that everything in my life gets weird? Yeah, well, this just goes to prove it. 

Most people, after a traumatic experience like mine, would probably take this opportunity to snuggle down into his comforting embrace, and discreetly lie their heads against his wonderfully muscled chest. But I was not most people. 

I freaked, as in, I had a full blown panic attack. Being picked up, and flown at superfast speeds in the middle of the night, by a stranger, even if that stranger was Superman, was the last thing I wanted. My hands flew about wildly, my legs thrashed about, and I began chanting, in a voice that was so hoarse and husky that it didn’t even sound like mine, “PUTMEDOWNPUTMEDOWNPUTMEDOWNPUTMEDOWN!”

He landed as gracefully as any man that can fly could, after receiving several uncoordinated slaps to the face. I practically melted to the ground in sheer relief. 

He knelt down, so that we were at eye level. “What’s wrong?” he asked confused.

“I almost just got abducted, I’ve probably broken something, and I’m TERRIFIED of heights, and you’re asking me what’s wrong? How about you ask next time you go to swoop someone off their feet.” I responded in a dangerously hysterical voice. 

He rocked back on his heels, and blinked. Apparently that was the first time anyone had been annoyed at him for trying to fly them somewhere. I vaguely wondered why that was.

Somewhat more calm now, I asked “Where’s the nearest hospital from here?” while frowning. From what I could tell we appeared to near the heart of Metropolis, judging by the number of gawking people nearby.

“Not far.” He replied, slowly standing up, and extending out his hand to me. Gratefully I took it, wincing as I put weight back on my ankle. 

“As in, a short tram tram trip from here?” I asked, noticing that we were conveniently near a tram stop. 

He looked at me incredulously, “You have a fractured rib cage, and you mean to take public transport to the hospital?” I swear his raised eyebrow seemed to disappear into his hairline. 

I looked at him skeptically, “It beats having to walk, so, yeah.” He seemed even more surprised at my answer. 

“Why?” He queried, “I could just fly you…..” He trailed off. Probably because of the look I was giving him. There was no way, no way, that anyone else was going to pick me up today, and whisk me away. 

Superman slowly nodded, as if somehow guessing my thoughts, which maybe he could, I wasn’t really sure. I sure hoped he couldn’t. Or maybe he just didn’t want to get slapped in the face again when I began to freak out. 

It wasn’t long before Superman and I were boarding the nearest tram that would take us to the local hospital. It was possibly the most pleasant tram ride I’d ever had. 

Despite the fact that there were no seats on this carriage, or that it was over packed, there was a about a 3 foot circle of space between me and any of the other passengers. Except for Superman that is, who stood calmly and regally behind me. I lost count of the number of camera noises I heard, as people stood with mouths open, and phones out

Every now and then the tram would turn sharply, or jolt about, and I my back would brush against Superman’s chest. I wasn’t sure if he moved forwards to brace me, or if he was standing that close the whole time, but somehow, he always managed to take most of the movement's shock. If it had been anyone else, I probably would have been creeped out, but somehow, in my pain filled state, it wound up feeling reassuring. I found his presence strangely comforting. 

The oddest tram ride I’d ever had finally ended, as Superman said, “This is our stop.” Even though I was feeling miserable, and thought I was going to vomit if I didn’t get some painkillers into my system, I almost laughed. That was never something I’d ever thought I’d hear. 

He gently placed his large manly hands on the small of my back, and steered me towards the door. My heart gave a little flutter, which was ridiculous, since, well, it was just…. weird. 

Stepping back from me, he said softly, “Wait here.” His tall torso was shed in the brilliant light of the nearest buildings, and I watched as he walked away to go and fetch me some help.   
I began to muse that maybe, just maybe, whoever invented spandex wasn’t so insane after all. Maybe they should be given a medal actually.


	3. Frank the Singing Frog.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Painkillers are confusing.

So... I know this is really, really, laughably short, (maybe that's a reflection of my own height?) but hey, I enjoyed writing it, and I fully intend to add another chapter soon.

THANK YOU SO MUCH to my everyone for the KUDOS! I was in a uni lecture when I saw them, and I completely flipped. You should have seen the LOOK my lecturer gave me; I'm pretty sure she thought I was having a fit. I was just so excited, and please to see them.

If anyone has suggestions, go for it, I'm pretty much open to whatever you have to say.

Also, my apologies in advance, I'm sure there's going to be some poor grammar in here, (haha, some of it's meant to be like that though, so don't get confused) but I felt bad for not up-loading anything.I've had to add this without my trusty editor's assistance (and by that I mean my lovley sister's proof-reading).

Enjoy.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Superman returned moments later, stopping just a few feet shy of where I now lent in agony against a streetlamp pole. "Hey" I hissed, short of breath, and unable to think of anything else to say.

Superman didn't seem to be bothered, he only moved closer, his hands unconsciously going out to my sides to support me. "I've spoken to a nurse, and they're organizing a bed for you to stay in tonight. They're concerned that you ribs may cause a punctured lung, so they want you to stay under-surveillance."

"Yeah-huh" I gasped, attempting to keep my breath as shallow as possible, and panicking a little, considering he mentioned that I might get a punctured lung.

"Can you walk?" He asked, moving closer again, already seeming to know his answer. I shook my head, realizing just how much for-granted I'd taken my rib cage my entire life. Every time I tried to move it hurt.

I should probably note that Superman could have asked one of the nurses to come out with a wheelchair, but instead he wrapped his arms around me, instructing me to step-up onto his large feet. Without much thought I complied, so that I was literally standing on top of his feet. "I promise I won't fly very high this time" he whispered reassuringly, and somehow that helped put me at ease. It was bizarre how quickly I was learning to trust this man, or alien, whatever you want to call him.

As if it wasn't already weird enough to have taken public transport with Superman that day, I also wound-up hover-waltzing through a busy hospital. And I describe it as hover-waltzing, because we were hovering, while the whole situation (other than the broken rib-cage and Superman thing) reminded me of when fathers dance with their little girls for the first time, moving them around their lounge on top of their feet.

I was grateful that Superman was hovering me through the hospital, since this was probably the least painful way to travel. Somehow, and I don't really remember how, but he managed to transfer me onto the bed, and the next thing I knew, I was surrounded by a team of nurses and doctors. I yelped in pain as the doctor began palpitating my ribs, and heard him tell a nurse that I had two fractured ribs, and she should attach me to and IV drip.

I scanned the room, wondering why there were so many nurses here to help me, considering, in the grand-scheme of things, fractured ribs weren't that drastic. I realized of course, that they weren't here to help me, but rather stare at the impressive figure, standing, arms crossed in the corner. When our gazes met, I gave Superman a weak smile, surprised to find that he hadn't left, now that I was being taken care of. 

Then the room turned a funny shade of purple, and Frank Sinatra, who looked an awful lot like a frog, began to sing "Come Fly With Me", while all the nurses suddenly had cat faces, and purred at me that I should lie down and stop singing. I was rather confused by that, and tried to explain that I wasn't singing at all, and that it was really Frank (the frog). Eventually some of the cat's left the room, meowing something about mugs, or drugs, I wasn't at all sure.

Superman moved closer to my bed, still looking his perfect 'I-could-seduce-the-entire-world's-population-of-women-if-I-wanted-to' self.

I frowned, a little annoyed, considering I probably looked like I'd gotten in a fight with the angry the lama that was lurking near my IV drip. I think I may have told him to stop being such a show-off, but again, I'm not sure. His eyebrows joined together, and in a hypnotic tone, or maybe that was his usual tone, he said: "Don't wear your green slippers. They're made from yellow baboons. I want to eat them. It's important that you don't talk to milkshakes, because they hate me."

At this point Superman paused to remove my hands from his cheeks, since I'd been attempting to rearrange his features into a smile. Gripping both my hands he said hurriedly, "Mules will fly you to carrot-land. Don't fudge." And then Frank the frog's singing became even louder, the hospital room, including Superman, faded away, and I was dancing a tango with a giant marshmallow.

And yes everyone, in case you're wondering, this is what happens when I've been given strong pain-killers. I don't usually dance to tunes sung by a frog, even on Halloween.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Comments? Anyone?

Also, my own KUDOS, to anyone that gets the "Cat-faced-nurses" reference. :)


	4. The OCD OC, named Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for stuffing that up. I thought I had posted chapter 4 ages and ages ago, so the other day, when I uploaded chapter 5 (about homeless guys and cardboard), it probably made no sense. :P 
> 
> Chapter 4 is pretty important, because it introduces two new OC, Harry and Belinda. Hopefully, when you read this one, chapter 5 will begin to look a little less disjointed. 
> 
> Thank you for the feedback. It's really appreciated, and I'm glad you like my OCs. I like them too. :) 
> 
> There probably won't be another update for a couple of weeks (2ish), because I've got a LOT of uni-work that needs doing.

As the high-pitched whistling of our kettle filled the cramped apartment with its usual ear-piercing shrill, my sister, Belinda, stumbled out of our shared bedroom. With a sleepy grin I glanced in her direction, vaguely able to see past the long and thick mess of hair that tangled and wound-around her neck and arms, to glimpse her face. 

Zombie like, she staggered over to our kitchen bench, and said a sincere “thank you”, as I pressed a large mug of super-strong black coffee into her outstretched hand; and by that I mean she grunted something unintelligible. Turning around to butter my toast I smiled to myself, as a whimper of happiness left her throat. I moved around sitting down on the creaky chair with a sigh of happiness myself. Enjoy the fact that today, I had absolutely no plans, and no obligations to go anywhere, or see anyone. 

If I had know that broken ribs equated to getting a holiday, I probably would have invested in this little endeavor a fair while ago. Well, actually, maybe not, considering I was almost kidnapped, that it had hurt rather stupendously and I’d experienced a pain-killer induced high. Not that, to be fair, that part was entirely all that unpleasant, especially since both the Frank the Frog, and Marshmallow-man had both been very pleasant genteel fellows. When I found out about the side-effect, it was actually the embarrassing after-effects that I hadn’t so much enjoyed. 

Even now, five weeks on from the event, Belinda would occasionally start singing “Come Fly With Me” in an obnoxiously loud, and off-key wail, (because even I wouldn’t, couldn’t call that noise “Singing”). The first time it had happened, I had, none too politely told her to shut her mouth before I, or our dog decided to jump out the window to end our suffering. I had thought that remark was rather clever, until she smugly informed me that she was only “mimicking” just one of the “fascinating” spectacles I had performed for her, and all of the hospital staff a few days prior. 

Apparently, among other things, I had been singing, dancing and talking about Llamas for most of my stay in the hospital ( I may have also, at some point bitten a fellow patient with a highly contagious virus, so now had to gargle antiviral mouthwash three times a day until directed otherwise). After that I was forcibly restrained to my bed. According to the nurses, they’d never quite seen a reaction to the drugs as “unusual” as mine. 

Two days later I’d woken to the sound of crunching popcorn, as Belinda sat on the window-sill, dutifully filming my drug-induced high. With an evil grin on her face, she had told me, in excruciating detail, all the things I had done, to deserve being strapped to my bed. Let me tell you, it had been very hard to walk out of that hospital with me head held high, especially when several nurses had run, yes, run, at the sight of me. According to Belinda, the whole thing was hilarious (hence the popcorn), and she couldn’t wait to rewatch the whole saga. I know right, what a charming sister I have. 

Interrupting my sour line of thoughts, Harry, our cousin and fellow house-mate, burst into the dining room, with arms outstretched, somewhat like a TV host. His chest heaving with jubilation, and his chin set determinedly, he slowly turned around. I frowned in concentration, attempting to see what Harry was trying to show us. As usual his curly auburn hair was tweaked and pulled and gelled into some semblance of order; his black business suite was precisely pressed and ironed so that not a single wrinkle was visible; his face was cleaning shaven; the blue colour of his tie matched the colour of his neatly folded handkerchief in his jacket pocket; his teeth practically sparkled, and his shoes glinted as if they had been polished and rubbed mere moments before (which they probably had). In other words, he looked exactly the same as he did every other morning. 

Belinda, raising a critical eyebrow and asked “And what am I meant to be seeing right now?” in a bland and morning dull voice. 

Beaming, Harry lifted up the cuffs of his pants, to reveal, his slightly mismatched socks. Both Belinda and I leaned forward in our stools, “You’re wearing socks?” I offered helpfully. 

Rolling his eyes, Harry announced in an exasperated tone, as he moved into the kitchen, “They’re different colours. One’s black, and the other’s navy blue.” 

Trying to smother a giggle, all I could say was “Oh.” This was apparently, Harry’s attempt at being a little more spontaneous. He’d been talking about this “change” of his for months now. 

Belinda, always quick with a sarcastic comeback, commented, “That sure is an achievement.”

Obviously she wasn’t serious, but I actually happened to think that for Harry, it probably was. Seemingly flustered, he began to rearrange the cutlery draw, making sure that all the utensils were in the correct holder, and facing the same way. 

“Speaking of outfits” Harry piped up, his back still turned away from us, “I hope that’s not what you’re planning on wearing to work today.” 

The question clearly wasn’t directed at me, since I wasn’t working, so I looked at Belinda properly for the first time that morning, unable to see anything out of the ordinary. She wore her usual coat and jeans, but perhaps Harry with his sharp eye for detail had noticed something I had not. 

Harry turned around now, his arms crossed disapprovingly against his chest, leveling Belinda a confronting glare. Cooly, Belinda crossed her long legs, and took a challenging sip from her coffee, (if you don’t know what that looks like, then just imagine it) before answering, “Actually it is. It helps me camouflage into my surrounding for the case I’m working on.” 

Skeptically, Harry hummed a “Uh huh.” While, to my surprise, I saw Belinda re adjust her hold on her coffee mug, which meant, beyond a doubt, that Belinda was clearly uncomfortable. Since it was very rare for anyone to have the upper-hand in any kind of battle of wits against belinda, I delightedly took a large gulp from my mug, which I felt was justifiable, considering all the rubbish I’d had to endure about my stint in hospital. 

“This is still the same case about that new drug lab right?” He asked casually. Belinda gave a sharp, almost begrudging nod. Intrigued I lent forward, taking another mouthful of my coffee. Belinda had been on this case for over a month, and had been unusually secretive about the whole thing. As far as I could gather, almost all of Metropolis’s police force had at one point or another made an attempt to bust the case, and Belinda was one of the closest yet. It had something to do with a drug ring, and several new, very potent chemicals being released on the black-market. These chemical ranged from potent “party drugs” to undetectable poisons. To say that it was important, was understating things. 

“So….” Harry said, drawing out the vowel sound, “Since when did busting a bunch of drug dealers mean you have to dress as a stripper?” 

Belinda rolled her eyes, and defensively crossed her arms. While a fine spray of warm mist was projected from my lips, as I began to choke on my coffee. In disgust Harry picked up a spray bottle and cloth, commencing a vigorous scrub of the kitchen bench. 

“Since it is.” Belinda snapped, getting up from her chair, and crossing over to the front door, to pick up her handbag and scarf. 

“A stripper?” I choked out incredulously.

“Techniquely I'm not a stripper. I don't actually remove any clothing, I just dance on a pole wearing this outfit. It’s not exactly my favourite disguise, but it’s the only one that’s actually worked so far.” She explained, half impatient, and pleading at the same time. 

My eyes widened; she wasn’t joking. Her half buttoned coat had fallen slightly open, and I was practically blinded by what I saw, or didn’t see, I wasn’t sure which left me gaping more. She wore barely anything, and what she did, was covered in hundreds of golden sequences. It was like someone had gotten a gymnast’s outfit, and then slashed a whole bunch of holes in it, before pouring a bucket of neon paint and sparkle glitter everywhere.

“You don't remove any clothes?! That's because you don't need to, you're barely wearing anything!” I practically screamed, still shocked, and now slightly horrified.

Belinda moved over to clasp my hands between hers. “I promise, if I could get into the club any other way I would. But this is the only way I’m going to find out what we need to know. People are stupid, for some reason they seem to trust ditzy girls who dance on poles for a living.”

“Dance on poles for a living?” I repeated, absolutely horrified. 

“I know what I’m doing, and I’ll be safe.” She tried to reassure me, “And if pretending to be a pole-dancer saves a hundred lives, then I’m going to keep dressing like a stripper.” Despite her soothing tone, I could hear the determination in her voice. But I could be just as stubborn. 

Before she could cajole me further into a false sense of security, (because there was no way that having to dress up like that, to infiltrating a bunch of murderous, money-greedy, morally deficient drug deals was EVER going to be “safe”) I interjected. 

“There is NO WAY my sister is going to go to some sleazy drug-producers, dressed as a pole dancer, so that people can sit there ogling you while you work. There is no way that going into a place like that, filled with hundreds of ferals is ‘safe’. There is no way on earth that I’m letting that happen!”


	5. Detective work involves cardboard.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paranoia begins to set in....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while.... My bad. 
> 
> Is there anybody out there still reading?

Not six hours later I sat by my phone, drumming my fingers on the table nervously, waiting for my sister’s call. We’d made a deal that every 3 hours she’d ring me, to let me know she was all right. According to Belinda that was completely unreasonable, since “she’d been doing it all week” and it hadn’t mattered. Which was in my book, completely outrageous. Of course, when I’d told her that if she didn’t, I’d jolly well destroy my own gym leotard, attack it with glitter and wiggle around a pole with her if she didn’t, she found my original compromise rather reasonable, which saved me a great deal of trouble, and her a great deal of embarrassment. 

Suddenly my phone lit up, and I snatched it up from the coffee table. The screen showed Belinda's caller ID, and before I could answer, abruptly stopped. I sighed and slowly placed my mobile back, wriggling down into the couch, now content that she was safe. I pressed play on my extended version of the Lord of the Rings, and happily zoned out. Or, at least that’s what I’d thought I’d do, but really I just fell asleep. What can I say, pain medication does that to a person. 

So, it wasn’t until 4 hours later, with the main menu playing on a loop, that I eventually roused myself from the couch. Wiping the drool from my mouth, I lazily peeled my eyes open and gave a yelp. 

There stood Harry, although, I found it very hard to believe that the man I was looking at was indeed Harry. 

His curly hair sprung up at all angles, there were several rips in his suite, particularly around the knees, and his jacket was no where to be seen. A large and colourful bruise protruded from his forehead where a gash had obviously been stiched up, and it looked as if his nose had been bleeding, because there was dry blood still visible on his dirty white shirt. 

“Harry”, I exclaimed, “What on earth happened to you? Are you ok?” I asked, leaping up from the couch and pulling him into a hug. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little scraped up. I’ve just been at the hospital and they’ve already given me the all-clear to go home.”

“What, what happened to you?” I repeated again, standing on the tip of my toes to get a better look at his injuries. 

“I was driving back from my lunch break and got hit by a car. It would seem he faired better than I did, because before I could get out the car, the guy drove off.” He shook his head and pulled me in for another hug, obviously still shaken up by what had happened. 

“I rang the company and told them about the car, so they’ll take care of the insurance side of things. And after that, the hospital discharged me and told me to take it easy for a while.” 

At the look of concern on my face, he reassured me “Don’t worry, it looks worse than it is.” He sighed tiredly, rubbing his eyes. 

Shaking my head I firmly said, “Come on, you can tell me more about what happened later. For now we’ll get you cleaned up and put you in bed.” I gently squeezed his arm, and began to steer him towards our bathroom. 

When I realized that bending over seemed to make him dizzy I helped him undress as much as I could, then left him standing in his pants with the water turned on to heat. I closed the door quietly behind me. Biting my lip with unease at the further bruises I had noticed on his chest, where the strap of his seat-belt must have been. 

While he showered, I heated up a can of soup, because I’m not the greatest at cooking, and made him a hot chocolate, hoping that the sugar might help with the after-effects of his shock. Once he was finished, I dutifully sat him down and watched him finish both his meal and drink. After I guided him into his bed to rest, I began to clean the dishes, because for once, Harry was even too sore to tidy the kitchen. If even cleaning was neglected, I knew that despite what he’d said, his injuries were as bad as I had suspected them to be, and he’d lied to make me feel better. But then, that was Harry, he’d bend over backwards to make anyone feel better. 

It was only then that I realized I was hungry too, and made myself a cup of tea and a sandwich. While I was sitting down, my feet stretched out and my mouth full, it occurred to me that I should have heard from Belinda by now. Reluctantly I got up and retrieved my phone from the coffee table, checking the call logs, in case I had missed hearing the phone while I was asleep. She hadn’t called. 

Perhaps she’d forgotten, or gotten particularly busy and hadn’t had the chance to call. Deciding to give her the benefit of the doubt, I waited patiently, while pacing back and forth, until 7pm. Obviously, by that I mean I waited very impatiently, even going so far as to sneak into Harry’s room, open up his phone and check if Belinda had called him instead of me, by some mistaken slip of the thumb; she hadn’t. 

By 7:15, I politely texted Belinda, with a gentle reproach to remind her that she’d forgotten to call me. At 7:25, I sent another text message, turned the TV on and monitored the news for reports of slow traffic, or drug-ring busts. Traffic was per usual, and there was no news of police breaking up a secret drug lab. 7:30 came and went, and so did another three messages to her phone. After more pacing, several (five) failed attempts to phone Belinda and another peek at Harry’s phone, I was beginning to get worried. 

Images of Belinda tied up and locked in the trunk of an old 1950’s car, or held at knifepoint by a balding man with a gold tooth haunted me, and as ridiculous as I knew they were, I couldn’t seem to get them out of my head. 

Maybe, if I just casually happened to be in the area that Belinda was working in, I could pop-in and pay the bar a little visit. I could be in and out before anyone even noticed I was there. Then it occurred to me that I didn’t exactly know where Belinda was working. so I would need to find that out first. 

Walking purposely into Belinda’s room, I immediately headed over to her pile of dirty clothes, and rummaged around in her pockets. Pulling out seven different receipts, and $4.55 in loose change. I smirked, Harry had been attempting to convert both Belinda and I to a “sugar-free diet”, and three of those receipts were for double glazed, custard filled pastries. Guess it wasn’t working as well as he seemed to think it was.

Another two were for car fuel, but the seventh and sixth were for meals bought from a “massage parlour”. Figuring that it was too strange a coincidence for Belinda to have bought two meals from a “massage parlour”, I checked out the name of the street, and entered the address into my phone for directions, turns out it was within walking distance. The massage parlour I figured was either a code name for a secret drug ring, or a police hideout, either way, it was a good point to start from. 

I paused in thought, debating my options. If I did infact find out where Belinda was working, even I had to admit that waltzing into a drug club, cruising around for a bit asking after one of their dancer’s probably wasn’t the most covert. Especially if someone offered me drugs, given that I was looking for a drug-lab. I mean, I’d say no, but then what young person goes to a drug club and then doesn't take drugs? On the other hand, I think I already knew the answer to my problem. 

I could follow Belinda’s lead, and dress as a pole-dancer. 

But every part of rebelled at the idea. 

I was right, they’d never believe that a young woman in a drug club wouldn’t buy drugs, and a stripper was out of the question, but what about a homeless, broke man, who wanted drugs, but couldn’t afford them!? Then if that didn’t work, and they questioned who I was, all I had to do was take of my homeless disguise, to reveal my old gym leotard, and tell them that I didn’t want anyone in the crowd to recognise me. Then all I had to do was get Belinda and scram. 

I tried Belinda’s phone one more time, scribbled a note to Harry, explaining that I was going out for a walk, made a change of clothes, grabbed my coat, and headed out. Stopping every now and then as I walked to jump in puddles, wipe dirt on my face, and fill my pockets with loose scraps of card-board. Because for some reason, homeless people always seems to have a lot of card-board.


	6. Alpha Lord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had a few suggestions for the my OC's name, and in the end I decided on Jamie. Thank you very much everyone for you suggestions! I'm planning on using each name for other characters, so hopefully you'll be pleasantly surprised when you see them pop-up. :) Hope this chapter isn't too serious, and you get a good laugh. And thank you again, and again, and again, and again, for all the comments. I really, REALLY, really love reading them, they're such an encouragement to write! 
> 
> I apologies in advance if this particular chapter is riddled with mistakes.... I'll fix them when I see them. I've already gone over it a few times.... but I have a feeling that I'm just too tiered to pick them all up. :P

The ‘Massage Parlour’ looked exactly as I thought it would, dirty, dark and in need of a fresh coat of paint. The whole building was tinged a strange green colour, even though I suspected the walls were once grey, and there was a strange, unrecognisable smell in the air. The building appeared to have only one entrance, although it took up the entire corner of the street, suggesting this building housed more than just a bar and dancing area.   
Maybe that was where they sold all the drugs, I thought to myself. To be honest, I had no idea; I really wasn’t familiar with how the head-quarters of a drug ring operated. 

As I shuffled along the slightly green, glowing footpath, I muttered the Greek alphabet over and over under my breath, something I found soothing, and caught myself doing whenever I got anxious. Belinda said it was weird, Harry said he didn’t mind it, and now, even after all the years after uni, it had just become one of my signature mannerisms.   
I stopped in front of a wide, bright purple entrance. The florescent sign above the door glowed an ugly orange, a letter missing so that it now read “ASSAGE PARLOUR”, and a heavy set, macho looking, bald man stood in front, his arms crossed intimidatingly over his chest. His rings glistened, and looked like they might be cutting the blood supply of to his pudgy, tattooed fingers. 

In a voice three octaves higher than I would have picked for such a muscled man, he asked “Name and intention?” I had to suppress a nervous laugh, maybe it was all the steroids this man must be taking, that made his voice sound like that. I blurted out “Alpha, I mean, ugh, I’m here to check up on a friend of mine.” I wasn’t sure that nervously laughing wasn’t worse than almost yelling out the first letter in the Greek Alphabet. The man’s heavy set uni-brow raised in surprise, and his arms dropped to his sides in confusion. 

Maybe I hadn’t put enough dirt on my face, maybe I didn’t smell of B.O., maybe I hadn’t stuffed enough cardboard in my pockets; he probably saw right through my disguise. Panic began to rise in me. What if he didn’t let me in? What if, right now, my sister was being tortured for information? Or had to dance on a pole in those high-heels; she’d probably break a leg. I practically yelled at the man, “I’m in disguise.” And I pulled out two fistfuls of soggy, smelly cardboard. 

The man took a step back, a look that at first I thought was anger, but then realized was fear on his face, as he pressed himself against the purple doors. If it was possible, his voice was higher, and he squeaked at me, his hands raised, “Please, Alpha Lord, don’t tell me who you are. I have a family.”   
He must have seen the look of confusion even through the smeared grime on my face, because he amened, “And by that I mean I have a cat, I would never lie to you ma’am, I mean, Alpha.” Not that I was exactly confused about the whole family thing, more about the whole scared behaviour. 

Without looking me in the face, his eyes downcast, he whispered, in an almost awed voice, “Please, come right in.” Adding, “I never thought I’d see you with my own eyes.” 

He swept his arm wide, moving out of the way of the door, as if welcoming me to my very own castle, even though this place was about as far from classy as you could get. There was a long bar that covered the back wall. The room was filled with filthy tables and chairs, which were crowded much too close to each other, with too many people sitting around them; and obnoxiously loud, sleazy sounding music. To my left, there was a dancing stage that several women were doing a modernised version of the can-can on, and to my right a goth-looking dressed woman, apparently a waiter.   
Steroid-man beside me dropped his arm, which he’d been using to urgently beckon the pale, dark haired woman over with. The place had a mismatched atmosphere, several groups of people apparently stoned, or drunk, cackling together and leaning out of their chairs, while others walked around in neatly pressed suites, striding with purpose and intent back and forth from a white door wedged between the bar and the stage. 

“Welcome to the Massage Parlour” the woman slurred, her lip piercing grabbing my attention as it dangled down her chin, “What can we do for you?”, she winked, which was probably meant to be seductive, but I found myself taking a step back. 

Steroid-man hissed, “This is Alpha Lord, take her to the best seats, and give her whatever she wants.” The woman’s eyes widened, only exaggerated by her black make-up, which reminded me of a raccoon sprung eating out of a dumpster.  
“Yes, of course.” She said quickly. “This way, if you please.” Again, she slurred, weaving between the tables, leading me to one of the better lit areas of the building, and a table closets to the bar. She pulled out my chair, and stood nearby, ringing her hands. Before I could ask about any of the dancers, or get a proper look to find Belinda, she asked, her voice cracking, “What can I get for you, Lord Alpha, I mean, Alpha Lord. Please forgive me.” The last bit was rushed and sounded like a plea, her air of terror making me feel uncomfortable. 

Through the green haze that filled the room, I looked around sceptically at the bar nearby, at the sticky looking glasses, the smeared bench, the alcohol slowly dripping out of leaky taps, and jars full of pickled eels, fish and eggs. Suppressing a shudder, I answered, “Water. I’d like some water please.” The woman looked stunned, so I added, “With ice, please.” Hoping that somehow made the request seem more like what Alpha Lord would order. Nodding, she walked off, her black studded boots making a loud thumping noise as she moved. 

This was my chance. I had to find Belinda and get out of this germ infested building before one of us caught a nasty bug, got sick and died. Sliding off my chair, I pulled my thin trench coat around me, and swivelled around, dodging between all the other chairs and tables to get a better view of the dancers. I stopped near the exit to the stage, and peered up at the women, searching their faces for Belinda. It was difficult to tell, they all wore black wigs, red lipstick, sparkly outfits and stilettoes, but I was fairly certain none of them was her. I sighed in frustration.

A deep, gruff voice cleared their throat behind me, and a tall thin man, his greasy hair slicked back from his forehead, a pair of sharp framed glasses perched on the end of his equally sharp nose, said “Alpha Lord, I’m sorry for such a poor display of the venue’s entertainment. We were under the impression that you would be visiting the premises next week, but I can assure you, you’ll find the rest of the building to be of a far superior standard.” He pushed his glasses up his nose, and moving a thin boned hand from behind his back, he held out a clipboard with papers attached. He reminded me of a ferret, a really scary, ferret who wore glasses. 

Not knowing what else to do, I took the clipboard, and was about to begin to explain that whoever this man, and the rest of the staff here thought I was, they had it all wrong, when he said, “In fact, it’s probably good timing that you came today. We’ve caught an undercover detective, and your interrogation skills are something of a legend. I have a feeling this one will be hard to get talking.” 

I took a sharp breath in, and my hands squeezed the clipboard so hard that they went white. They’d caught my sister. This man, possibly the drug lord who owned the ‘premises’, was about to torture my sister. I tried to stay calm, tried not to think about them touching her, hurting her, about them dumping her body where no one would find it. “Alpha-Beta-Gamma”, I whispered and the greasy-hair-man frowned, as if unsure of what I had said. 

I made a snap decision then, not letting myself think about whether or not it was the wisest thing to do. My sister needed me, and she needed help now, she didn’t have time to wait for the police to arrive, and I could think of no one else who might help me rescue her. Well, that was a lie, I could think of one person, one man, but I had no way of finding him to get help. Collecting myself, I sneered in my most disapproving voice, “You had better be right. So far this has been a total waste of my time. I’m Alpha Lord, I expected more than this dump. And as for the cop, let me take care of her.” 

The man nodded, and rubbing his hands, soothed, “I assure you, the labs are more than up to standard. This way.” He wiggled his body around the tables, and moved towards the white door, pausing to pull out a security card. He swiped it, and stepped back to hold the entryway open. I moved past him and through the door the way people do when they know the other person has nits, which is to say, I stayed as far from him as possible.

I immediately noticed the temperature drop in the room. The pungent smell I had noticed before was significantly stronger in here. We stood on top of a metal grate catwalk, above a shockingly large concrete room that was filled, from one side to the other, with machinery, that occasionally hissed and gurgled. Plumes of green mist rising from an elaborate maze of test tubes, bubbling mixtures and vats that oozed liquid. Men in yellow bio-hazard gear scurried about the room, testing, pouring, mixing and taking notes. I swallowed, somehow, this was not what I had imagined a drug-lab to look like; it was far to orderly, precise, planned. And along every wall, were men in black clothes, carrying machine guns.   
What on earth had Belinda gotten herself into? I swear, if these guys didn’t kill her, then I surely would.   
Smugly taking in my look of surprise, the greasy-haired man commented, as he peered down his nose at the scene, “This is the testing lab, where they design the products.” He began to move, and the catwalk passed from one room, into the next. It was filled with what looked like mass ovens in one corner, and conveyor belts; crowded lines of workers packing small amounts of light green powder into clear packets marked with the Latin word for ‘fear’. “Phase one of the plan has already been deployed, and as you can see we’re on schedule for phase two. The boxes should be ready to ship out within the week.” 

I nodded dumbly, I had no idea what he was talking about, but it had an ominous ring to it all. He droned on, as if the whole set-up bored him with its familiarity. “No doubt by now you’re wondering where labs 5 and 6 are. I can show them to you if you wish, but we’ll need to change into protective equipment.” 

I tried not to show my panic, the idea of changing in front of this man, out of my homeless disguise, to reveal my sequined leotard was not at all appealing. I couldn’t afford to blow my cover now, not when I was so close to finding my sister. The man was still talking, apparently in my panic I had zoned him out.   
Mid-sentence, I cut him off. “Actually, I was contemplating how stupid you all were to bring a cop in here for interrogation. If she didn’t know anything before about what we’re planning, she certainly will now. I think it’s about time she and I have a little chat, don’t you?” 

Greasy-haired man stopped, his mouth opening and closing, clearly not appreciating my insults, and for a moment I wondered if I’d gone too far. But then he said, “Yes, of course Alpha Lord.” We took an elevator down to the ground floor, and then took another door, one I hadn’t seen before, into an office, passing through into a corridor, filled with what looked like a conference room, and then entered another room, with a singular, glass window set in its front, presumably a one way mirror. 

A menacing smile, more because it was genuine than because it was faked for Lord Alpha’s benefit, lit the man’s eye up like a match might to his product covered hair. It was unpleasant and made me want to back out of the room. His fingers splayed out across a fold-up table, covered in stains I tried not to think too hard about. Terrifying instruments, of varying size and shape littered the table, one of his long fingers fondly tracing the outlines of a particularly sharp weapon; a cross between a razor blade, and a dentist drill. He sighed sincerely, his eye flickering up to meet mine for an uncomfortable moment. When he spoke, his voice was hushed in reverence, “I had hoped to try this particular tool out myself. I was moments away from conducting my own interrogation before I received word that you were here.” I tried my darnedest not to tell him that he was repulsive.

He licked his lips eagerly, and that same hideous light returned to his eyes, “Still, I suppose I’ll just have to make do with watching. Perhaps I shall learn a thing or two today to try out next time.” 

Bile rose to my mouth, and the putrid taste almost matched my feelings of utter disgust. I didn’t have the words to describe how sick and twisted this man was. I had to get to my sister, before this sadist had a chance to try out anything. Taking a moment to calm myself, I answered, “I see no point why we should delay any further.” 

Stalking forward, I grabbed a sharp knife, perhaps the only weapon on the table I knew how to pick up without cutting myself. The blade reflected back the fluorescent light of the room, and without hesitating, I moved forwards and threw the door open. 

Belinda’s head was slumped forwards on her chest, her arms pulled back by zip-cords to a rusty metal chair, the only object in the filthy, concrete room. The place smelled of urine, sweat, and that same unpleasant odour, that I now associated with whatever green chemical the scientists upstairs were experimenting with. It took all of the little strength I had remaining, to restrain myself from flinging myself at my sister, and simultaneously check if she was all right, and yell at her for ever thinking that becoming a detective was a good idea. 

Even I raised my eyebrows, wondering why I suddenly put on a Romanian accent. “I am Lord Alpha. I am here to find out vhat you know.” My voice cracked, and glancing at the one-way mirror, I cleared it, willing Belinda to recognise me. 

Belinda didn’t move, didn’t even shift a muscle, and I honestly wondered if she’d heard me. “You vill tell me vhat I vant to know, or I vill cut you.” I said, swishing the knife back and forth. For crying out loud, even I realised I sounded like count Dracula from Sesame Street. Yet again, I wondered how I got myself into these situations. Here I was threatening to torture my sister, in the middle of a drug ring, having disguised myself as a homeless person, been mistaken as a high-ranking drug Lord, all in the effort to save my sister, who was disguised as a stripper. 

Walking closer to her in my most sinister swagger, which probably meant that I looked like a drunk giraffe, knife waving through the air like it was a conductor’s baton, I moved behind Belinda, and lent close to her ear, as I cut each of her bound wrists from the back of the chair.   
I was about to whisper to Belinda that it was me, to reassure her that it was all going to be ok, because I’d come to rescue her, when she pulled a crazy ninja stunt on me. She whirled around, one of her hands latching onto my throat, the other snatching the knife out of my hand. With the full force of her body, she twisted us both around so that I was slammed into the ground, and she knelt above me. 

My eyes bulged, and I croaked out something unintelligible, as the air was slammed out of me with a nose resembling a rubber duck’s squeak. Her grip tightened for a moment, and then her eyes searched my face, a look of recognition, and utter horror passing over her. 

Her grip loosened for a moment, and then it tightened around my neck as she roared, “What the HELL are you doing here?!” I managed to roll my eyes. I mean, if anyone had the right to be mad here it was me, I was the one who had to stuff soggy card-board into their pockets to try and save their sister. 

Her grip loosened, not that it had tightened all that much, and the door in the corner burst open. A loud gun-shot noise resounded throughout the room, and I stared, still gasping for air. 

Belinda had swivelled around in a crouching position, and I propped myself up on my elbows so I could see better. My hand came out to rest on Belinda’s shoulder, gently pulling her around, desperate to make sure she hadn’t been shot. Belinda, brief with explanation, stated, “I’m fine”, in a voice grumpier than the one she used every morning before coffee. She stood up from her crouched position, adjusting her very short outfit.  
I looked over to the door, and greasy-haired man stood in the frame, the gun clattering out of his hand. A knife, THE KNIFE I’d been holding a moment ago, embedded deeply into the left side of his chest. He dropped like a stone, falling to the side, making a sickening thudding noise as he landed. Now I did throw up, something I would have thought impossible, considering I was still trying to get my breath back. 

Belinda tossed me a sympathetic look, and stepped over the man, moving out of the room, where I could tell by the sound of the metal, she was taking some of the weapons. She came back into the room, and lent down to pick up the gun the man had dropped, coming over to help me stand.   
She licked her lips, and in a strained voice asked, “What are you doing here, Jamie?” I held her gaze and whispered, “Coming to save you.” 

Affectionately, and still half annoyed, she tucked a loose strand of hair away from my grimy face, and said, “You idiot. I don’t need saving.” 

I shoved her hand away, and exasperated yelled, “Well it sure looked like you did to me!” At least, that was before she revealed she was secretly from the matrix. Incredulous, I asked “And since when are you a trained assassin, or whatever that knife throwing, choking thing was?!” 

Belinda shot back, “Well, since when are you the Alpha Lord?!” A poor comeback even by my standards. She added, “And I didn’t need your help. I had everything under control.”   
I scoffed, unbelieving.   
Belinda calmly shook her head, “That’s how it was supposed to look. Any minute now, and Metropolis’s best black ops team is about to storm in and shut this place down. We had good Intel tonight that the Alpha Lord was supposed to be in the neighbourhood, and it was my job to try and figure out if he was here. The only reason they aren’t here was because I was waiting for visual confirmation of the Alpha Lord before I gave them the signal.” 

“Then, then” I stammered, “What were you doing tied to a chair?”   
Belinda shrugged, “Well I’ll admit that part wasn’t exactly to plan, but you’d be surprised how much information someone is willing to give up when they think you’re the one caught in the trap.” Belinda, a scowl never having left her face from the moment she’d realised who I was, asked, “How did you manage to get in here anyway?” 

Lifting my arms uselessly, and following her out to the other room, squeezing my eyes closed as we stepped over the dead-sadist’s body, I said, “Well, I’m Alpha Lord, it was kinda like a VIP pass apparently.” 

Belinda turned sharply on her heals, a look of utter disbelief on her face, and gave a snort of laughter. I pouted, “Well, at least that’s who they think I am. Obviously I’m not really the Alpha Lord.” Belinda snorted again, and agreed, “Obviously.” 

Belinda began talking, “We need to get out of here before someone comes to find out why a gun was fired. When they took me I was blind folded, did you see how they…” She stopped, impatiently snapping at me, “Jamie, are you paying attention?” 

I jerked my eyes up from her skimpy outfit, and asked astonished, “Why are the sequins on your leotard flashing red? Did you turn it on or something?” 

“What?” Belinda asked confused, and like me she stared at her costume. Suddenly her head shot up, and she explained, “That’s my alert beacon. It’s only supposed to activate when I tell back-up that the Alpha Lord is here.” 

I stared at Belinda, “Remind me again what happens when you tell them that?” I asked. But the sound of an alarm, glass breaking, gun-fire, yelling, and concrete walls being blown open answered my question. Apparently it meant that the Calvary was here. 

Belinda grasped my hand, and the next thing I knew we were running out the room, and down one of the corridors, in the opposite direction I’d come from. The noise was deafening, I could hear someone close by yelling for back-up, as we hurtled down the corridor, and up another set of metal-grate stairs, this time higher than before. Belinda whipped around to say something to me, pointing to the swaying, metal vats that hung above our heads from the roof, but her voice was lost amidst the sound of yelling and alarms.   
All around us, men in black commando gear whizzed down ropes from the smashed glass ceiling, and began to disperse through the room, herding up scientists and gangsters alike. We ducked and a spray of bullets hit the wall behind us, as the guy I recognised as the bouncer from the front door wielded a machine gun. 

In the split second that Belinda and I flattened ourselves to the floor to avoid being shot, our hands separated, and an explosion that rocked the room was detonated directly beneath us. As the fiery inferno swept upwards from the ground floor to where we lay above, Belinda and I rolled to the sides, her one way, and I another to avoid getting cooked like my mother’s turkey on Thanks Giving. That is to say, we were almost burnt to a blackened carcass. I distantly wondered, as parts of my hair sizzled around me, if I still had eyebrows. The metal grating burned any part of my uncovered skin it touched, and I yelped from the instant blisters. I rolled further to the side, squinting my eyes to see through the green haze.   
I grasped the metal railings, pulling myself to standing position, searching for my sister. A loud metal screeching filled my ears, as the whole section of the platform I was standing on buckled and warped. I screamed as I lurched to the side, the railing I was holding on to detaching from the rest of the walkway, and to my horror, and another screech of metal, I was thrown of balance, and hit the deck with the back of my head. The whole catwalk tilted and swayed, and for a moment my vision went black, and my face was covered with a sticky, warm liquid, my nose filled with a strong chemical smell. 

Then with another lurch, and another nearby explosion, the catwalk fell away from beneath my feet, completely blinded by the gunk on my face I began to fall the few meters towards the ground. With a familiar sensation, my back hit two hard poles, and my stomach flip-flopped. And then I began to feel myself being rushed upwards, through the air. I wanted to scream, I wanted the ground under me feet, I wanted to see why I wasn’t lying on the concrete with my head smashed open, but most importantly, I wanted to breathe. 

Whatever liquid had been spilt on my face, had hardened to a thick mask, and my fingers scrambled desperately trying to pull it off. I’d never known any substance to feel like putty one moment, and then as hard as stone the next. It was like trying to claw at a smooth metal wall, except it had no ridges, or joining edges, and was perfectly sculpted to my face. It was suffocating me. My chest heaved up and down, and I felt solid ground underneath me. I was completely disorientated, my ears still ringing from the blasts, unable to see. 

Then, through all the confusion, all my fear and panic, even through my wild instinctual need to breathe, a voice, his voice, filled my senses. “Hold still for a moment while I get this off. I don’t want to hurt you.” Without thinking I froze. The mask began to heat up on my face, slowly at first and then all at once, until it was almost painful, and then I felt strong fingers slide along my cheek, pushing underneath the now pliable metal, and in a smooth jerking gesture, Superman thrust up and shattered the metal. 

My whole body arched as I gasped in my first breathe of air in over a minute, and I felt myself being pulled close to his chest. I was racked with shudders, panting in sweet gulps of air. He repeated again and again, “I’ve got you.” Relief washed over me, his arms around me reassuring me that I was safe. 

I pulled back all of a sudden, realising that even if I was out of danger, it didn’t mean that my sister was. I pulled my legs out from where they’d been tangled with his, and our gazes met, a look of understanding passed between us. We both had to go back in there. He was Superman, and there was a lot of people in that lab that needed his help. Clearly Metropolis’s police department hadn’t counted on there being this much armed resistance to their black-ops team. I glanced down, we were leaning against part of the concrete wall that hadn’t been destroyed. When I looked back up, his blue eyes probed my face in question. To explain why I had to go back in, I said “My sister is still in there.”  
He stood up, nodding, and held out a bloodied hand to me. I grasped it, and saw him wince. I had presumed that the blood was mine, now I realised that it was his. “What? How? I thought you couldn’t get hurt.” I blurted out confused, bringing his hand up to better see it through the smoke that filled the air. 

His voice was gravely, and for a moment he hesitated, as if he was imparting to me some kind of secret, which I later found out he was “Whatever that was on your face, it’s got Kryptonite in it.” 

My head snapped up, and my eyes widened, “And what, Kryptonite can make you bleed or something?” I asked, my hand still holding his, he nodded, and distractedly said “yes”, tilting his head to hear something I couldn’t. The realisation that superman, the man who couldn’t be hurt, was willing to be hurt to save me, didn’t hit until much later. 

Faster than humanly possible, he yanked me forwards, and an eruption of green, super-hot steam and water burst up and out of the hole in the wall, into the space I’d been standing in moments before. Again that smell, apparently from the chemical that the scientist had been using to experiment on the kryptonite with was thick through the air, and we were covered in a mist of green fog. I sneezed, the steam irritating my nose. 

It took me a second to realise that beside me, Superman’s hands went to his throat, and he made a coughing, spluttering noise, dropping almost instantly to his knees. I knelt with him horrified, and my arms came out to support his swaying body, as he looked at me in helpless wonder and shock. With a final desperate claw at his throat, his eyelids fluttered closed, and he slumped forward.   
“Superman, Superman.” I yelled again and again, trying to hold the majority of his body weight off me. His head lolled in an un-natural way, and I screamed his name in alarm, or at least I screamed his persona. Because it terrified me to see a man like him, the invincible man, being brought to his knees, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do or how I could help him. Cradling his neck and face in my hands, I eased him to the ground, trying to figure out what had happened to him. 

His words from a moment ago echoed in my head. The Kryptonite from the metal on my face had made his hands bleed, and now he was unconscious on the floor. If I had to guess, whatever was in that steam had traces of Kryptonite in it too, and he’d just breathed in a mouth full. I thought of the way his hands had bled, and tried not to imagine that happening to his lungs as well. 

There was the sound of guns shots in the distance, and as I tried to lift out Superman’s thickly muscled arm over my shoulder, I thought back to my sister. She was probably still in there somewhere, in danger. I swallowed hard, this was an excruciating dilemma. In there was my own flesh and blood, someone I’d loved for as long as I could remember. Out here there was Superman, I didn’t even know how I felt about him, but he was helpless. Desperately, although deep down I already knew my decision, I tried to rationalise with myself that it would be fine to leave him here.   
Someone would eventually find him, and he was Superman after all, he had to be ok. But as I tried looked down at him, the way his head rolled lucidly to the side, the unnatural green tint to his skin, the blood on his hands, and the way his characteristic curl of hair now hand limply to the side, I knew I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t leave him here for someone else to help, he wasn’t someone else’s responsibility, somehow he was mine. More than that, I realised, I could never count on the fact that someone else would take care of him. 

Superman was completely incapacitated right now, and a man with as much power, and as much will to do good, had to have enemies. For all I knew, even the American Government might jump at the chance to experiment on him, to see why he was bullet proof. A tear of frustration rolled down my cheek. I rarely ever cried when I was scared; I cried when I was angry, overwhelmed and feeling powerless. 

The only comfort I had in that moment, was to ask myself what Belinda would want. I knew the answer to that all too well. She’d never wanted me to come rescue her, and I was begging to think maybe she had never needed it either. She’d tell me to go home where it was safe. 

I sighed, letting go of Superman’s arm. I stared at him for a moment, taking in my surroundings. We were standing outside the building, and I could recognise a street sign some distance ahead. There was no way I could drag him all the way home, even if it was only a few block away. He was practically twice the size of me. I pulled out my phone from one of my pockets, and flicked off a piece of soggy cardboard, before dialling in Harry’s number.


	7. I Liked Those Drawers.

“Harry, watch his...” I yelped in warning. Too late, I saw Superman’s head hit the side of my drawers. There was a hollow thudding noise, and I pulled a half terrified, half amused face at Harry. I wasn't sure how many people could say that they’d done to Superman and lived to tell the story. Harry grunted an apology, either that or a swear-word, I couldn’t tell, as we strained to lift Superman up and onto my bed.  
We’d originally planned on putting him in Harry’s room, it had seemed more appropriate at the time. But as soon as we’d begun lugging, dragging, shoving and pulling him up the stairs, we’d changed our minds. We’d hadn't even made it as far as the lounge, before deciding to put propriety aside, and dump him in the closest room, which just so happened to be mine.

Harry held onto Superman’s legs, and we paused, as with some effort, I manovered myself around, so that my arms were hooked underneath Superman’s armpits. Harry sucked in a huge breathe, and readjusted his grip, jostling Superman’s body in the process. One of Superman’s arms fell haphazardly to the side, from where it had been lying atop his shoulder, and I gave a muffled “Argh” as his large hand lucidly covered my mouth, and his curled fingers managed to momentarily lodge themselves up my nose. I jerked my head to the side and wrinkled my nose, trying to ignore Harry’s sniggering.

“Three, Two, One.” I counted, as we swung Superman onto my bed.

Harry gasped, “Thank goodness” clearly relieved.

We both sank back against the closest piece of furniture, and stared in astonishment at the man lying unconscious on my bed. After a few moments of exhausted silence, because dragging ‘the man of steel’s’ unconscious body up a flight of stairs was no easy feat, Harry glanced over at me with a smirk on his face.

In a mock-disapproving voice he said “You should know not to share your bed with a man you’ve dragged out of the gutter.”

Not appreciating his joke, I snapped “Shut up Harry.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up, and he asked, “After calling me up to help you hide and dump a body, this is how you treat me? I thought we were closer than that.” In a mock-offeneded voice. 

I stuck my tongue out at him, “You always know how to phrase things in the worst way.” Although, considering the situation, it pretty much was exactly what I’d just done.

Harry frowned thoughtfully, “You’re both filthy. I’m sure his blood is going to stain those sheets.” His arms crossing over his chest, in his very best, I’m-a-germaphobe pose. “You should probably clean him. I’ll clean the rest of the house.” Harry must have been feeling better from his earlier injuries, otherwise he wouldn’t suggest cleaning.

“Me?” I asked incredulous. “Me, clean, clean Superman?” I stammered, flabbergasted.

“Yes. He’s filthy, and it’s making me uncomfortable.” Harry said slowly, as if I didn’t understand the concept.

I shook my head, “Yeah, I can see that. But, I can’t wash him. I’m a girl. And, and he’s a man. I…. no…. naked.” I said becoming more embarrassed as I tried to explain the dilemma, my arms gesturing broadly, and my intelligence shrinking to that of a sea-monkey.

Throwing my own words back at me, Harry said “Yeah I can see that. But I’m a dude. And dude’s like me, don’t like seeing other dudes…. Well, you know….” He said, generally gesturing at Superman’s impressive body, looking almost as awkward as I felt. He looked at me sideways, “Besides, I never mentioned anything about….. naked…. You could probably just wipe his suite clean, if it is infact a suite, and not a weird type of skin growth.”

“That’s…. I…. of course I didn’t think you meant…. Naked….” I trailed off, also waving my arm to indicate Superman’s body.

Harry and I both fell silent, wallowing in each of our own embarrassment. Superman let out a paticularily deep breath, that almost sounded like a groan. One of his arms was trapped uncomfortably underneath his torso, the other dangling up over his head. One leg touching the ground, and the other disappearing underneath my Doctor Who doona cover. He was covered in dust and debris, and his hair was matted with sweat, so that it stood up at strange, physics-defying angles. He was the most handsome, filthy man I’d ever seen. It annoyed me.

The sound of Harry’s cell-phone startled both Harry and I out of our dazes. He pulled it out of his jean pocket, and muttered, “It’s Belinda.” It’s funny how only two words can strike fear into the very core of a person. 

I winced, and stood up, “It’ll be for me.” I said, knowing that I was about to receive an absolute verbal-grilling.

Harry handed the phone over like it was a live grenade, and whispered, “Good luck.” As he practically ran out of the room.

“Hi Belinda, it’s me, Jamie.” I said into the phone. There was a moment of silence, like the moment before a typhoon hits, and then, well I’ll spare you the gory details.

From what I could gather, holding the phone a full arm length from my ear, Belinda was pretty upset. In a nutshell: she yelled at me for making her think I was dead; for getting the stupid idea into my head to infiltrate an organised crime mob; for interfering with her mission; and for making her have to spend the last half an hour convincing the Metropolis police force that her sister was not really the Alpha Lord (apparently Steroid-man from the front door was testifying otherwise). But she did seem mostly upset about thinking that I was dead. 

After quite some time, Belinda paused, and sighed, her rage finally fizzling out. “You still there?” She asked. 

I pulled the phone closer to my ear, “Yeah” I said, in a voice of mixed emotions. I mean, I knew I deserved some of that, well probably most of that rant, but I didn’t deserve all of that abuse. It’s not like I could have know what I was really getting myself into, before I went down there. As far as I was concerned, I had only been trying to help. 

“I’m sorry. I…” Belinda said sincerely, pausing for the right words. Sighing again, she admitted, “I was just so worried, and you were the last person I was expecting to see there.” I slumped down on my mattress, my back hitting Superman’s shins, staring dejectedly at my sticky-note covered wall. 

“I’m sorry too.” I whispered through the phone. “I just…. I just worry about you. After everything that happened, what with the bank robbery, and me being almost kidnapped, my sound reasoning was kinda thrown off that sky-scraper too, I guess.” I said haltingly. What I was saying probably wouldn’t have made a lot of sense to anyone else, but I knew that Belinda would understand my garble; growing up with someone will give you the ability to interpret even the most bizarre explanations. 

What I meant was that on a day to day basis, I’d freak out, my anxiety levels soaring at even the smallest bump in the night, or stranger looking at me too long down the street. The councilor I’d been seeing ever since my little trip off the bank of New York, had said that I was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and it was influencing me a great deal more than what I’d like to admit. 

My hand shook as I held the phone, my adrenalin starting to finally leave my system. I heard someone yell in the distance from Belinda’s end of the phone, and I could easily imagine her leaning against her police desk, some boisterous work colleague or criminal passing through the office. “I’ve got a few more things I need to do before I can get home, but we can talk more about all this then. And Jamie, I do understand, I’m sorry for yelling at you and saying all that stuff. I should’ve known better.” 

A small smile spread across my face, relieved that Belinda really did get what I’d been trying to say. “I luurrrvve you.” I yodeled to her our signature goodbye. Belinda chuckled, and yodeled back that she loved me too. 

I took the phone away from my ear, and kept staring at my bedroom wall. Two years ago I’d finished my university double degree in Arts, Language and Culture, then completed a post-grad in the National Museum of Metropolis. It had been a year I’d loved, reading ancient scrolls, decrypting ancient tomb inscriptions, and for the first time in my life, being able touch the very items I had read and dreamed so much about as I’d grown up. 

Most kids for Halloween dressed up as a vampire, or zombie, or some sexed-up version of a nurse, but I’d dressed up as Indiana Jones. Not because I’d liked his whip, which I had, or that he fought-off the bad guys. It was because the most exciting thing to me that he ever got to do was read languages, beautiful, complex and long since forgotten about, and somehow breathe life into them again by discovering things that no one else knew. 

Now I stared dispassionately at all the maps, and sticky notes on my wall. Not even a few months back, I’d been convinced that in all my research and my reading of dusty old books, I’d stumbled upon the location of a city off the coast of Rome, or at least where a city used to be before a catastrophic earthquake. But I realized now how silly I had been, how pathetically hopeful and deluded I was. The words of my ex-manager, not long after she’d told me that I no longer had a position at the Museum since my internship had expired, that my theory was misguided and naive. She’d told me that if there had been a city there, someone who knew what they were talking about, implying that I didn’t, would have long since found it by now, and I shouldn’t confuse myth with reality. But now, months after not being able to find a job at anywhere else other than a fast food restaurant, her words still echoing in my mind, I wonder if maybe she was right. 

There was a sudden movement behind me, and I lept off my bed and out of my gloomy thoughts. Eyes wide as I stared at the unconscious Superman on my bed, as he rolled over in his sleep. I let out a panicked laugh; I had completely forgotten that he was there. I shook my head in disbelief. Worse still, I had forgotten to warn Belinda. 

There was a gentle knock on my door, and Harry poked his bright red head into my room. “How’d it go?” He asked gingerly, referring to the conversation I’d had with Belinda. 

I shrugged, moving over to give him back his phone, “As well as could be expected really. Belinda wasn’t too impressed, but it’s all good now. I think she understands.”

Harry and I both let our gazes drift back to the alien lying on my bed. No doubt the same question, running through both our minds.What on earth do we do with him now?

Not knowing what else to do, I shuffled silently forward, and lifted his dangling leg off the floor and onto the bed, pulling the spare blanket that usually sat folded at the end of my bed, up from the ground where it had been knocked off, and as best I could covered him up. I was past the point of caring if his muddy boots smudged my blankets. I tucked the end of the blanket in, and unsure if he would wake up, moved his arm from where it was wedged between my drawers and the wall, so that it rested on his chest. I watched him for a second longer, his chest slowly moving in and out, just to see if he would wake up, but he didn’t. 

 

Harry looked on in disapproval, his lower lip curling as he stared fixedly at the muddy streaks all over my floor from when we’d had to drag Superman. Harry opened the door wider for me to leave my bedroom. I glanced once back at Superman, now lying almost peacefully on my bed, and felt satisfied with my efforts. Harry quietly closed the door behind us, and we both leant exhausted against the wall. 

Without realizing it I yawned. “What time did Belinda say she was coming back tonight?” Harry asked, stifling a yawn of his own. 

I thought back to the conversation I’d had, “She said she probably wouldn’t be back until mid-morning tomorrow. Something about having to do a lot of paperwork.” 

We lapsed into silence, and then Harry said thoughtfully, “You just tucked Superman into bed.” 

I nodded slowly, “Yeah, yeah I did.” It was funny that I wasn’t even sure if that was the strangest thing I had done today. 

Harry took a breath in, gathering his thoughts, and suggested that we pull-out a sleeping bag, so that I could sleep on the pull-out sofa, considering my bed was already taken. Harry went and got the sleeping bag from the linen cupboard, and I pulled out the sofa, both moving like slothful, sleep deprived individuals. We yawned to each other a goodnight, and Harry disappeared into his room, pulling the vacuum behind him and into his room as he went. He liked to vacuum his room first thing in the mornings when he woke up, and it had become one of those strange things he did, that I had simply gotten used to over the years. 

The last few things I remembered thinking before I fell asleep that night, was the vague thought that I should ask Superman to fly over the patch of sea I thought the ancient city had fallen into after the earthquake, just to check out the area. But then I dismissed that thought as ridiculous, Superman was probably far, far too busy saving people all the time, to fly across the globe to check out some city just to prove my theory right. I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke up the next morning and he’d already flown off. That, and I hoped the dent from where Superman's head had hit my bedside drawers could somehow be fixed. I liked those drawers.


	8. Flying Spiders.

I woke up with a start, my memory and my dreams blurring into an unpleasant muddle of explosions, bloodied hands, falling, and spandex. I groaned, and attempted to stretch. My whole body ached. I felt how I imagined a dog’s chew toy would, worn out, weak and limp in all the wrong places, like I’d been tossed around one too many times. Which, when my mind began to clear, I realized I pretty much had. My head throbbed from where it had hit the metal grating, my skin stung from the blisters, and my arms ached from carrying a body twice my size, and probably three times my weight. I was lucky I hadn’t sustained a concussion last night, it had probably been dangerous of me just to go to bed without getting it seen to first. 

I sat up then with a start, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and looking around the room. I pushed some of my messy hair out of my face, and stared down bleakley at the clothes I was still wearing. My trenchcoat had that funny chemical smell from the drug labs still on it, and my leotard had twisted uncomfortably as I slept. Sniffing again, I realized the lounge smelt pleasantly of coffee and something sweet. 

Gritting my teeth, I pulled myself stiffly off the sofa-bed, wondering what Harry had cooked for breakfast. I sighed, I had no idea how I was going to tell Belinda about Superman. Or if I’d be better of not mentioning the fact that he’d stayed in our apartment overnight at all. I was gunning for the last option, the more I thought about it all. 

I trudged into the kitchen, and gave a ‘I-can’t-believe-last-night-really-happened’ smile to Harry. His eyes bulged a little when he saw the state I was still in: morning hair and bad breath to top of my homeless look from last night. His jaw working tenfold the speed it normally would, so that he could comment on my appearance, and finish his mouthful of pancakes he was eating. Harry had this rule that he never talked with his mouthful, it was something to do with etiquette apparently, but being honest, I never really listened to his lengthy speeches about the “do and don’t” of polite society. 

I picked up one of the plates that was neatly set out on the table, thinking that I’d go and get myself some of the delicious looking, golden coloured pancakes from the stack newly cooked in the kitchen. I rounded the corner from our dining room into our kitchen, and was greeted with a cheery, amused “Good-morning.” by Superman. 

He stood, still in his superhero bodysuit, wearing Harry’s plain white apron over the top, holding a spatula in one hand and a plate of stacked, wonderful smelling pancakes in the other. Three seconds passed as I weighed up my options, and decided that there was no point backing out of the kitchen now, no one could unsee the horror of what I looked like in the mornings. 

I drifted forwards, holding eye contact, and said “Good-morning.” I stretched out my hand, and smoothly took two pancakes off the pile and deposited them onto my plate. Superman beamed, as if pleased by my actions. 

Conversationally he said, “I thought you might be hungry, I’ll just finish up the last of the batter and join you in the dining room. I haven’t had any myself yet.” Unlike me, he was obviously too well mannered to help himself to the food while he was still cooking. 

I hummed an acknowledgment, and walked out of the kitchen, still a little stunned. I sat down at the table, and asked Harry, “Could you pass the maple syrup please?” as I began to butter my breakfast. Harry looked up as he passed me the delicious liquid sugar, and I said placidly, “You could have warned me, about you know who.” Referring to Superman in our kitchen. 

Harry shrugged, and made an apologetic face, explaining, “My mouth was full.” 

I blinked twice at him in disbelief, and then slowly shook my head, dismissing the subject, and cut a generous bite size. Harry finished the last of his drink, and stood up slowly, as if mentally preparing himself to go back into the kitchen, and see Superman cooking us breakfast. I overheard a few pleasantries exchanged between Superman and my cousin, and then Harry came back with a glass of water and the last of the painkillers I’d been taking for my ribs. 

Adjusting the placemats at the table, he said “You should probably go to the doctors today to get your ribs and whatever other injuries you’ve got checked out. The last thing you want right now is to have done more damage to yourself, just when you were healing.” 

I nodded and smiled gratefully. Harry could really be sweet sometimes. He’d married young, and after his first wife died of cancer, I think he liked living with us, because it meant he still had someone to look after. 

“Anyways, I’m going to be late to work if I don’t get going.” He acknowledged, checking his watch, and moving over to pick up his briefcase. He glanced back over to me, and nervously said, “I’ll see you later. Give my farewell to Superman.” His eyes lingering on the kitchen, his thoughts no doubt on the Superhero cooking in there. With that he moved briskly out of the apartment, relieved at last to be able to get back uninterrupted into his daily routine. 

I finished eating the first pancake, and began the second when Superman finished cooking, holding the completed stack of food and a jug of brewed coffee. I looked up and smiled, clearing a space on the table for him to put them down. He stood still next to the table for a second, our gazes meeting, and I offered, “Would you like a seat?” Nudging one out with my foot. 

Superman cleared his throat, and said thanks. “I hope you don’t mind me helping myself to your pantry supplies.” 

I shook my head, “No not at all. These are delicious. Thank you.” There was a moment of awkward silence, and Superman leant forward and took a pancake and drizzled it with syrup. “I didn’t know you could cook.” I stated, as some kind of ice-breaker. 

He looked up and beamed, “My mother taught me. I quite enjoy cooking actually.” 

I took a moment to surreptitiously look Superman over. I’d been half-worried that whatever the Kryptonite had done to him last night, it might have a permanent effect. His bloodied hands and pale face had featured heavily in my nightmares, so I was relieved to see that he at least looked like his normal self. And by that I meant, he was back to like his ‘blue-eyed, women-wooing’ self. 

I nodded, poured myself a mug of coffee, and laughed, “I’m really not the best cook. My idea of cooking is usually a salad sandwich, or tinned soup.” 

Superman smiled at me goodnaturedly. “Harry was telling me.” He said simply. 

My eyebrows shot up, and intrigued I challenged, “Oh, was he?” 

Hiding a laugh, and eating incredibly fast, he moved onto his third pancake and said, “Yes, he did mention something about not being used to sharing the kitchen with anyone. I take it he’s a little overprotective, after the stove fire happened.” 

I laughed and winced, “Yeah, but in my defense, it’s hard to tell when black-beans are burning, because they’re already black.” 

Superman chuckled, and shook his head in amazement. I looked down at my cup of coffee, and smiled appreciating the warm, gravelly tones of his voice. Thoughtfully, I commented, “You make a nice cup of coffee. I don’t usually like hot drinks other people make for me, I’m really picky.” 

I took another sip of the brew, dark, with a touch of caramel flavouring, not too sweet, but just enough to taste the flavour. 

“I uh, lucky guess.” He said, shrugging, his cheeks dimpling from a secret smile. He cleared his throat, and began, “Considering everything that’s happened, I think that there is some important things we need to get cleared up. Do you remember when I said that….”

I cut him off, and promptly said, with an understanding expression, “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

Superman blinked in surprise, and tilted his head. “I won’t tell anyone that you’re allergic to Kryptonite.” I offered reassuringly. 

Superman looked a little confused for a second, and said “Oh, well that is a relief, and I can’t say I’ve ever had anyone describe it that way, but I was going to say...” 

I rushed to finish his sentence, wanting to make it as easy for him as possible. “It’s okay. I completely understand, I won’t tell any of the reporters that you stayed here last night. After the whole cardigan fiasco, and the tram ride thing, or the hospital situation, I’m getting pretty good at telling the reporters something, without telling them anything at all. If you get what I mean.” Which was true, I’d had to put up with annoying reporters sticking microphones into my face after each incident, and I’d quickly learnt how to evade their ridiculous questions. 

Superman still looked confused, and said, “Well thank you. I appreciate your thoughtfulness. But I don’t know that you do understand. I was going to clarify what I said a few months ago at the hospital.”

I frowned, thinking back to that night, and said seriously, “You mean when you told me you wanted to eat baboons, and that you were going to fly back to Carrotland? Because up until now, I thought I’d made up all that stuff in my head. That you hadn’t said anything to me at all, and it was just the medication.”

Superman looked dumbfounded. “No, no you didn’t imagine our conversation. I was really there.” 

I stared at him in amazement, “Oh.” Shaking my head in disbelief. “You probably should clarify what you said then, because I didn’t understand a word of it, and I really don’t see what milkshakes have to do with anything, well, anything I can think of.” 

Superman leant back in his chair, and laughed. It was deep, and a little infectious in its mirth. Trying to frown through my smile, I asked, “What? What did I say?” Honestly wondering what had made him laugh.   
Fixing his gaze on me, he was able to compose himself enough to say, “Somehow you always manage to make me laugh Jamie.” Something about the way he said it, reminded me of the way that old friends talked to each other. Maybe it was in the way he said it between fits of laughter, the way one of his arms rested against the back of the wooden chair casually, or his tone of voice, somehow both surprised and holding fondness at the same time. 

I glanced down shyly, moving the last piece of my pancake around in my maple syrup covered plate. Having lost track of my thoughts, my mind replaying the sound of his laugh, I cleared my throat and asked, “So, uhm, what did you need to clarify?”

Superman tilted his head thoughtfully to the side, his steady gaze resting on my face, seeming to be weighing up his options. He leaned forward, his forearms coming to rest on the table top, as he began, “This morning when I woke up in your room, I couldn’t help but notice that you seem to have a lot of interest in ancient civilisations.” A clear change of conversation topic.

I pushed my plate away from me, and pulled my feet up onto the chair, so that I was hugging my knees to my chest; curious how he knew that about me. 

“I took the liberty of reading some of the sticky notes and maps up on your wall,” Superman added, as an afterthought. “I couldn’t quite understand all of them, but from what I could gather, you think you’ve found a lost civizilation. I was wondering if you could explain to me where exactly you think they might be.” His tone of voice somehow reminding me of a detective, or news reporter.

I blinked in surprised. Unable to hide my delight, I nodded eagerly, “Yeah, yeah of course. Although it’s a city, not a civilization. Which you know, is actually a pretty big difference. As exciting as it would be to find a new civilization, or in this case re-discover an old civilization, but that isn’t going to happen, only because the city was sunk into the ocean. Or at least that’s what I think happened.” I babbled, probably not making all that much sense. 

I bit my lip, then offered, “It might be easier if I showed you, rather than tried to explain it all.” Trying not to show how excited I was that someone was taking interest in my work. 

Superman nodded, “I’d like that.” He said simply. 

I stood up, trying to think where to start my explanation. “Uhm, follow me.” 

As Superman stood up from his chair, there was a loud high pitched squeaking noise, and my eyes widened in surprise. Superman’s head snapped up, and he was quick to say “That was my suite. On the chair. Not, not, a bodily function.” I giggled, unable to help myself from finding the noise his suite had made as it moved across the polished wooden chair as funny, especially considering it was Superman. Yeah I know, I laugh at fart-jokes, not exactly mature of me. 

I graciously nodded, accepting his explanation, and moved out of the kitchen, through the lounge and into my room. The mid morning light filtered in through my window, illuminating my cream coloured carpet littered by untidy stacks of books and papers, the light blue curtains, my matching wooden bedframe, desk and drawers. I noted wistfully that the drawers still had a dent, but pushed the thought out of my mind, excitedly going to the main wall opposite my bed; an artful mottled gold colour. Not that there was much left of the wall to see. It was covered from ceiling to floor with a mind-map design of red string attaching large maps of Italy, the surround sea and countryside. Brightly coloured sticky notes, photocopied pages from various old texts I’d found were stuck on the maps, or hanging from the string with small wooden clips. 

At the very centre of the complex web of string and paper, was an enlarged photo of a cracked stone tablet. A carved inscription covering it’s surface, which I knew from experience, had taken me over six months to decipher. “It all started with this tablet. When I was working at the Metropolis Museum, my supervising professor received a shipment of findings from a recent archaeological dig near Cape Sounion, not far from the famous temple of the Greek god Poseidon. Among the artifacts was this.” I said, gesturing towards the photo.

“The tablet had an inscription on it that no one had so far been able to completely figure out. You see, even though the bulk of the text is written in Greek, there are a few symbols dispersed at odd intervals that everyone had previously assumed were for decoration, or punctuation.” I touched a few with my finger, the first, a small picture of a what could have been a temple, another a very small but unmistakable trident, a few others like a man’s arm, the sun, the moon and the stars. 

I continued, “Even though it makes sense that these symbols are just decorative, what doesn’t quite seem to fit, is that this tablet was found to date back as being older than Poseidon's temple. Now, that might not seem strange to the average historian, considering that belief in the god of the sea does pre-date the building of the temple itself. But what doesn't make sense is that the text clearly makes reference to Poseidon's domain, or his temple, or …” I said, drawing out the word, “It could even be translated as his home city.” 

I studied Superman’s face carefully, as his eyes roved over my wall curiously. “Which at first, doesn't make all that much sense. Unless, even before the building of the temple, there was another temple, or as I think is really the case, a small city.” 

Superman frowned, stepping closer to one of my hand-scribbled notes on the Trident symbol, his lips moving as he read. I took another nervous breath in, unsure if Superman’s lack of questions was a good or bad sign. Most people I had told about my theory had either stopped me by this point in my explanation to pepper me with questions, or laughed off my idea as a ridiculous leap of my imagination. 

I moved over to the middle of my room, and tilted my head back, so that I was staring at the ceiling, which was covered in hundreds of tiny, glow-in the dark stickers, grouped by constellations. It was something I had done from childhood, the difference between now and then was that now they were positioned in their correct astronomical bearings, albeit on a miniature scale. “I couldn’t get to sleep one night, and this” I waved my hand toward the ceiling, and Superman followed my line of sight to my roof, “gave me an idea.” 

I looked back at the wall, pointing out the moon and stars symbols. “In the greek and roman culture, there are many minor goddesses who are associated with the moon and stars, but the most repeated meaning, or vague idea behind all of them, is to do with time. The tricky thing with symbols is that they can represent any number of things, all at once, or only one aspect of their imagery.” I swallowed, unable to read the expression on Superman’s face.

Taking no interruption from him as a good sign, I persisted, “Time is associated with change, or, and this part has something more to do with the luna cycle, creation and destruction. I believe, considering the context of the inscription, that the change and destruction aspects of the moon’s symbolism is the intended interpretation of the image.” 

Superman asked, “Would you mind maybe telling me how all of this has to do with the ancient city, I’m a little lost in all of the details.” 

Somewhat disappointed by his question, a clear request to skim over the details, I fiddled with my fingers, and nodded. “In a nutshell, I think that the symbols indicate that there was infact a small city located along the coast of the Aegean Sea. Some great force, indicated by the man’s arm, was responsible for the destruction of this city, and it was lost to Poseidon's kingdom, which is of course, the sea. I think that the reason it hasn’t been found, and the reason it should still be there, is primarily because whatever this great ‘force’ was, presumably an earthquake which caused the coast shore to fall into the sea, has hidden the city under silt, rock and debris. Effectively creating a false seabed, underneath which is the remains of a city. Much like how Pompeii was buried and preserved under ash, silt, and eventually dirt.”

I wrung my hands, shifting from foot to foot nervously. Now that I had explained everything, I was worried that he might think I was some fanatic, or had hit my head a bit too hard when I’d landed on his arms after falling from the Bank. I pushed my messy hair behind my ears, and said, “You probably think I’m a bit of a weirdo, that is, if you didn’t already, but…” 

Superman cut me off, “No, no I don’t. I think it actually makes a lot of sense.” He took a step closer to me, as he did his foot knocking over a pile of books, and he glanced down, a sheepish smile dimpling his cheeks. “Sorry, I didn’t me to do....” 

I interjected, holding up my hand in a dismissive manner, “Don’t worry about it. I do that all the time.” Which was certainly the truth, I was prone to knocking or crashing into things around the house. 

Superman nodded, continuing what he’d been saying a few seconds ago, “The reason it makes sense, is because you’re right. That night back in the hospital, when you kept talking about Lamas trying to eat you,” 

I pulled the trenchcoat I was wearing closer around me, pulling a face and mumbling, “I said that?” 

Superman’s smile was oddly reassuring, as if he was used to people rambling about Lamas, as he said, “Yeah you did. I tried to warn you that you needed to be careful. Because, in my line of work, it’s inevitable that you develop enemies, and I had strong reason to suspect that some of them might come after you, because of everything you know. When those two thugs tried to kidnap you…” 

Superman trailed off, his eyebrows coming together in confusion. Staring at my face, which had gone a strange shade of grey. I stumbled back, my hand coming out to point at his foot, as I yelled in warning, “Spider, SPIDER, ICKY SPIDER!” Throwing myself up and to the side to land on my bed, and scramble up on my desk. 

Superman looked down in amazement at his foot, where the nastiest, most horrifyingly large spider I had ever seen, sat waving it’s pincers; it’s numerous gleaming eyes staring at me. Evidently having been disturbed from it’s hiding spot when Superman had kicked over the stack of books.

My voice sounding alarmingly like Gollum's from the Lord of the Rings, as I screeched “Kill the nasty!” Bending down to pick up a stapler, and hurl the item at the Spider. The stapler spun through the air, and bounced of Superman’s leg, making the kind of noise that metal makes hitting metal, and the spider jumped forward, unharmed to my absolute terror, running forwards towards the desk I was perched on. “NONONONONONONONONONONO!” I wailed, fleeing back to the safety of my bed, as the spider scuttled underneath the desk. My hands scrambling for the nearest item to hold out as a weapon, which happened to be my lampstand from my drawer top and a hairbrush. I breathed heavily, trying to figure out what my next strategic move was. I was debating risking running past the spider to leg it out of my bedroom door, or climbing to a point even higher off the ground then my bed. 

Superman’s strong clear voice interrupted my panicked thoughts, “Do you want me to take care of that?” he offered.

My mouth fell open, as I realized I probably looked like an absolute whimp, fleeing from a spider. That, and I had just piffed a stapler at his foot. 

Relaxing my grip on my hairbrush and lampstand, but not letting go, I tried to say nonchalantly, “Yeah, I mean, that'd be cool. That is, if you wouldn’t mind. I’d appreciate it.” Somehow I don’t think he was fooled by my I’m-not-bothered-by-the-huge-spider-hiding-underneath-my drawers act. 

Smiling, which seemed to be his default setting when he was around me, Superman walked over to my drawers, and picked up a spare sheet of paper and mug. He shuffled the items into one hand, and with the other gripped my desk, and lifted it high off the floor, like it was a paper weight. The disgustingly enormous spider scuttled forward, and ran between Superman’s legs, dodging the hairbrush I threw at it with a warrior like battle cry. 

Superman moved with inhuman speed, gently placing my desk back down, and swiftly covering the spider with the mug. Or at least, that’s what I thought he did, because he actually moved too fast for me to see him do all that. He stood now, the spider trapped between the mug and paper, holding it out to me as if it were a trophy to be proud of. I flattened myself back against the wall, hissing “I don’t want it. Get rid of it!” 

Superman tilted his head to the side, and stated, “Someone’s pulling key’s out of their bag to open your front door.” 

“What?” I asked dumbly, confused how he knew that and caught off guard by the sudden change of topic.

“Now they’re opening the door.” He narrated, as sure enough, now even I could hear the door burst open, as Belinda kicked it wide with her foot, and it bounced back against the door stopper, as she no doubt balanced an armful of shopping bags, having finished work and evidently gone shopping. 

I leapt down from my bed, the spider in his hands momentarily forgotten, “You can’t be here. She dosen’t know about you. I forgot to tell her!” I blurted out, and then in a rush asked, “Hey, are you feeling better. I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask before. But have you recovered from the green stuff enough to fly?” 

Superman glanced towards my bedroom door, and then back at me, as I lead him towards my bedroom window, “Yes.” He answered suspiciously.

“Great.” I said, “Then you’ve got to go.” And pushed my curtain aside, opening up my window so that a fresh breeze ruffled my hair. 

I heard Belinda’s distinct voice from the kitchen then, as she hollard, “I’m home. You around Jamie?” 

Whispering I said, “I’m sorry about this, but you’ve got to go. It won’t be good for either of us if she sees you in here. And uhm, you can take that with you.” I gestured nervously to the spider hidden underneath the mug. 

Goodnaturedly, Superman moved himself over to my window, and pulled himself up, so that half his body was hanging out the window, and his head and shoulders were still inside. “I’ll see you round Jamie.” 

I stood back, and gave him the thumbs up, as he ducked his head out the window, and disappeared outside. I rushed forwards, sticking my head outside the window to watch him fly away, Harry’s apron flapping in the wind, and my mug and the spider held tightly in front of him. 

I let out a breath of relief, and then sucked it back in, as Belinda, standing in my room asked, “What are you doing Jamie?” I sprung away from the window, wondering how long she’d been there. 

“Watching a spider fly. I mean, watching outside, thinking how glad I am that spiders can’t fly.” I tried to joke, putting my hands on my hips casually. 

Belinda nodded, and hummed, moving over to my window to look outside at the clear blue sky, apparently seeing no sign of Superman.Obviously content that I was just being my usual, abnormal self, she said, “Well you’re probably right. I imagine that if spiders could fly you’d never leave the house for fear of them.” 

“I would too leave the house.” I said defensively, adding, “I’m not that scared of them.” 

Belinda straightened, and gave me a ‘get-real’ look, snorting in disbelief. Changing the subject, “C’mon, while I cook us something to eat, you and I can talk about last night. Because we are going to talk about it, Jamie.” She said firmly, knowing me well enough to predict that I would have prefered to leave the subject entirely alone. 

She patted my shoulder, and left my room to head into the kitchen. I sighed, gave one last forlorn look out my window. Wishing I’d asked Superman to take me with him, and closed my window, pulling the curtains shut.


	9. The Last Whale Call of the Professor.

Hey everyone,  
Your comments= Me reading them, talking about them, showing them to anyone and everyone who will sit down and listen for days!!!! Thank you, so so much!!! Really, the feedback is wonderful! Thank you!!! Really, really touched that you guys went to so much effort of writing me comments. :D 

This next chapter (as with almost every chapter I've written so far) doesn't make sense on it's own, and won't fully give away all the answers. Actually, I hope it leaves you with more questions. Thanks for being so patient with how long it takes me to write, but at least this chapter is super-long to make up for it!!! As always, enjoy!  
****

On the roof of the apartment building block, Harry’s small garden provided me with a sort of safe-haven. Small green shrubs were meticulously trimmed and arranged along the sides of the brick wall in their plain cream coloured pots, a weather-beaten sun chair and rectangle metal table pulled up next to the highest part of the wall, offering some sort of protection from the wind. When I thought about it, it was really only Harry and I that came up here, most of the other tenants in the building either didn’t know it existed, or were too old to walk up all the steps. Which meant that this evening I had the place to myself. 

Admittedly it had been a while since I’d been up here; as it had taken a lot of self-talk to finally work up the nerve to stand on the top of any building roof again. Although, I hadn’t exactly allowed myself to peer over the edge like I used to, because I was fairly certain that if I did, unpleasant memories of the cold barrel of a gun pressing against my lower back, and how it felt to plummet off the side of one would come rushing back into my head. Huffing out a sigh, and readjusting my position on the sun chair, I audibly said “No.” Trying, and failing, to avoid thinking about that night. 

Instead my thoughts drifted back over today’s events, trying to sort the bizarre into some kind of order. I wriggled in my chair, absent-mindedly running my thumb against the cool metal pendant in my hand, but no matter how I sat on the chair, I managed to find a bruise somewhere. At this time of the night it was cold, and I tugged my woolen blanket around me tighter. 

I’d woken this morning, yet again in a fit of nightmares and managed to summon my strength up enough to flop into the shower. Where I was fairly certain I discovered new shades of purple, yellow and blue in bruises covering my body, not yet captured by any artist’s imagination. My face, which I’d been half terrified would be the very worst of them all, was surprisingly normal, in fact, in a strange turn of events, it was better than normal. 

I’d stared at my reflection, making a mental checklist for all my features, because I was more than a little worried that half of them might be missing. My eyelashes, my hair, and eyebrows, all present, still a mousy brown, not green. What a relief, I let out a puff of breath.

Vanity aside, I peered closer at my reflection, and tilted my head to the other side, a flicker of confusion stirring inside me. Something was different, and I couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Again I tilted my head, and pushed back my damp hair, my fingers running against porcelain smooth skin. I scanned my face again, my fingers running along the edge of my hairline, searching for a chicken-pox scar, that was no longer there. I bit my lip and pulled a face, lifting up my phone to use as a flashlight, moving the light across my face, searching in the mirror for what was missing. 

I gasped when I realized; I no longer had freckles. Not one. Not a single freckle. My face was as smooth as a baby’s bottom, which I’d always thought was a rather inappropriate expression to describe anything, but now could think of nothing else more appropriate.

“Green gunk on face equal a baby’s butox.” I muttered to myself, more than a little weirded out by how soft my skin felt. Whatever the kryptonite-based liquid had been intended for, I figured it hadn’t been as a beauty treatment. However, if losing my freckles, blisters along my arms, and a rainbow-mimicking body was the worst I got from the Alpha-Lord incident, then I really had nothing to complain about. 

I’d shrugged and decided to get on with the rest of my day, which involved covering my face, arms, neck and hands with bright, orange face-paint, and getting in my car to start my first day back at work: as a carrot. 

As part of a new promotion for Fantastic Fries’ new range of fries, made out of, you guessed it, carrots, I got to be the lucky worker who walked down the street the fast food restaurant was located on, offering everyone free samples. 

Usually this was my least favourite part of the job; in the past I’d had to dress up as a potato, corn, and zucchini, because yes, you can make chips out of zucchini. The costumes were always too big, uncomfortably hot, and stank like bad BO, but today I was relieved. It was one less person to comment on the blisters on the side of my neck and hands where I’d hit the metal grate, and should mean that I wasn’t going to get a repeat of overweight spandex guy, recognising me from the news and laughing at my near death experiences. I still wasn’t over that one. Nope, not by a long shot. 

So at work, I’d gladly stepped into the adult-sized carrot costume and spent my morning walking up and down the street, standing in the carpark, and offering strangers samples of our ‘100% chemical free carrot fries”. Sometimes I even managed to smile through all the little kids that kicked at me, just because I was wearing a ridiculous costume, while their parent’s laughed and said, “Oh he’s so cute. Let me get a photo.” 

Sometime during my lunchtime, as I’d sat down on a park bench, contemplating if I was about to give some little kid nightmares of cannibal vegetables, I heard a not-so-discrete whale mating noise. I frowned, dropping the chips I was about to eat, and looked around suspiciously, peering around at passersby on the street.  
I doubted that there were that many people in Metropolis that knew how to imitate the unmistakable sound of a whale’s mating call, and even fewer who thought that it made for an ideal way of covertly getting someone else’s attention. The low-pitched, mournful sound came again, and several pedestrians faulted in their steps, throwing a curious glance at the man crouching behind the rubbish-bin in a side alley a small distance away. 

Wondering what on earth my former professor and work-colleague from the Metropolis museum could want, I got up and walked over to the trash can. Watching, mystified, as I saw his bald head, and bottle-eyed glasses poke out for a moment, and then bob away further into the alley, as he almost tripped and then ran half-crouched behind the out-cropping of a brick doorway. 

“Professor, is that you?” I asked, more for the sake of at least pretending that his efforts at secrecy were working, than not actually being able to recognise him. 

I heard his characteristically indian accented voice, as he hissed urgently, “I’m standing in the brick doorway. A little to your left.” He added helpfully.

Hmmm, I hummed absentmindedly. Stepping around a water-puddle, and squeezing myself into the too-small-space for an overly-large carrot costume. “What’s up Professor Patel? And erh, why the need for secrecy?” I queried, as I looked him over, making note of his poorly groomed facial hair, his wringing hands, and the general look of unease about him, as he shifted from foot to foot. 

His hands darted forward, and grabbing hold of my shoulders, he pulled us closely together so that I could see every wrinkle in his ageing face in detail. His eyes darted from side to side, and he licked his lips nervously, whispering quickly, “They know, that you know. I’m so sorry Jamie. I couldn’t hide it from them, just like I couldn’t hide it from you. I don’t know how they found out, or who told them, but they know.” 

His voice rose louder as he hurriedly talked, sounding more paranoid and non-sensical as he continued, “Oh Jamie, why do you always have to ask? Why can’t you be like everyone else and not ask questions? You’ve always been too clever for you own good. Too talented. I should have known I couldn’t hide my favourite pupil forever. I should have known.” 

His face screwed up in emotional anguish, and I brought my hands up to his shoulders, interrupting as I soothed, “It’s all right Professor. Whatever’s the matter, it’s ok. We can fix it. Now tell me what’s wrong? Who’s upset you so much?” 

Now he did wail, and cupping my orange face in his old and weathered hands declared, “There you go again Jamie, asking questions you shouldn’t.” 

I interrupted again, my voice sounding somewhat gurgled as I tried to ask through the Professor’s hands squishing my face, “Professor, I don’t understand. What’s wrong? Just tell me why you’re so scared?” Alarm growing in me the more I watched the Professor. 

He shook his head mournfully, and lowering his voice again he rambled, “You don’t understand, it all started with the whales. And I was just like you back then, too curious for my own good. I found out… I, I, made a bargain with them you see, and then everything went back to normal, they’re going to come take me again. I thought it was all behind me, and then 60 years later, there you are, asking the same questions that I asked back then. So smart, so clever, what took me years to understand you realised in a matter of weeks. But what does it matter, time doesn't matter to them. But it matters to us, it matters to us. We have so little time you see. They’re coming for me. He won’t stop until he’s found them, and they won’t listen. They don’t understand what he’s like, they don’t understand how ruthless he is. It’s only a matter of time until he finds them. But they’re not like us mortals, they don’t understand the danger they’re in, they don’t understand that this time I can’t fix things....” His voice had grown louder to be heard over the sound of rushing water, and his breathing ragged with panic.

Shouting to be heard over him, I cut him off mid sentence, “Professor, you need to calm down. Calm down! You’re safe. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Just calm down.” I repeated again, trying to get through to him, yanking him into a hug, until his hands stopped fluttering around, and I felt his posture relax into my carrot costume. 

Pulling back, I asked in a soft voice, seeing that he appeared calmer now, “Professor, what’s wrong? Who do you think is coming after you, and do you want to go to the police?” 

The professor let out a nervous laugh, and shook his head wearily, “No, no they won’t be able to help me now.” 

“Why not?” I asked still in that soothing tone, trying to get eye contact with him, as he fixedly looked past my shoulder. 

The professor sighed, and squeezing my hand he pressed something round and cold into the centre of my palm, curling my fingers around the object before I had a chance to look at it, or question him about what the object was, as he said matter-of-factly, “Because they’re already here.” 

I turned my head, my hands dropping to my sides in astonishment, as a wall of water, as tall as a two-story building, and stretching from one side of the alley to the other quavered and shimmered, while the other side of the street remained untouched by water, looking exactly the same as it had before. It was as if some invisible force was damming the clear blue water, stopping it from receding back or moving forwards.

I watched in confused amazement, and dumbstruck stepped out of the door-frame, mutely following the professor as he shuffled forwards, taking the glasses of his face, and slipping them away into his tweed blazer pocket. His stood in front of the mass of water, as if seeing something in it that I couldn’t, with a look, if I wasn’t mistaken, of resignation.

If he addressed his next few word to himself, to me, or to the wall of water I wasn’t sure, but he said in a manner that a child does when they know that there is no way to talk they’re parent out of the life-long grounding that they’re about to be inflicted with, “Well, I knew that it was only a matter of time. I suppose there is no way I can convince you out of this is there?” His words were met with a low pitched noise, that was short in its response, and if I didn’t know better, sounded an awful lot like a whale. 

Putting his hands on his hips, the professor retorted, a hint of exasperation in his voice, “You may not believe this, for all you boast of being immortal, but burying your heads in the sand, forgive the expression, is no way to deal with the problem. A mere mortal he may be, but the same legend that helped me to find you, also tells of a weapon that is able to kill immortals like yourself, and Lex Luthor will not stop until he’s found it.” 

Again, the Professor’s word were met with a low-pitched noise, but suddenly the mood of the conversation changed, if you could call the dialogue between the Professor and whale noises a conversation.This time when the whale called again, it sounded distinctly lower and angry, making the hairs on my arms and neck stand up. The Professor quickly turned to face me, but before he could warn me, the wall of water wavered, and then collapsed. 

Water gushed forwards, engulfing me and knocking me off my feet as it swept through the alley way and spun me around in it’s cold embrace. For a second the air was knocked out of me, and my mouth was full of salty water, everything a confusing swirl of turbid water, the street landscape and free sample of chips. Then, as suddenly as it had all appeared, the wave of water disappeared, washing out onto the main street. Leaving me in a puddled of orange-tinged salt-water, lying up against an upside down trashcan, sputtering and coughing. I dazedly stood up, looked around and realised that I couldn’t see the professor; he was gone.

I’d ran out of the alley, squelching and yelling the Professor’s name over and over again, until I’d asked to borrow someone’s mobile to call the police. When the police had eventually rocked up, I gave a statement to two obviously skeptical officers. 

Really though, why was it so hard to believe? Everyone already knows that Metropolis is home to a flying alien, and yet an unexplainable mass of water, capable of making whale noises and abducting a professor can’t possibly exists?! Ok…. well, maybe I can understand at least a little bit why they were cynical, but I could honestly say now, that I’d seen stranger things… Well, maybe. 

Now I sat on the rooftop thinking over the day's events, fighting of a sudden overwhelming exhaustion. I’d spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find the professor, and trying to make sense of what had just happened, but no one in the police force had been able to find him and neither had I. When I’d asked one of the forensic officers to take a sample to prove to them that the water hadn’t just come from a leaky bathroom tap, one of the younger officers had began to take a sample, and then been told off by one of the officer’s I’d initially met with. So instead, I’d gotten a vial of water thrust into my hand, and been told that the most the police could do, was put out a general announcement that an elderly, ethnically indian Professor had gone missing between the hours of 13:00-13:30, and was suspected to be suffering from some kind of mental illness. 

That last part had made me downright mad. As if Professor Patel was mentally unwell, sure he was a little strange, in hindsight that may have been one of the reasons we had always gotten along so well, but I could only think of a handful of people that had the sharply acute intelligence to rival that man. He had a warm wonderful sense of humour, and had always encouraged me to pursue my love for ancient civilizations, and under his tutorage I’d felt like I’d been able to truly learn in leaps and bounds. Yes, his behaviour had seemed a little strange this afternoon, but his love for mouldy cheese, tweed jackets, and indian rock-bands had also always seemed strange to me too. So for the local police force to say that he was probably experiencing early onset dementia (and heavily implying that I was too) was beyond preposterous. Besides all that, I reflected, dementia doesn’t progress from non-existent to severely debilitating over the short amount of time I hadn’t seen him, without any warning symptoms.

My attention turning back to the object in my hand, I flipped the small metal disc around again, wondering why the professor had given it to me. At first I had thought it was a Greek coin, but no Greek or Roman coin I’d ever seen had the symbol of a trident on it’s front and back. It was old, that I was sure of, but I wasn’t sure how old it was, or even if that mattered. I yawned, frustrated, worried and confused, and now very tired.  
I could barely keep my eyes open, and for a moment I could smell the scent of a cinnamon scroll and strong coffee, before I forced myself to concentrate back on the problems at hand. What had happened to the Professor? Where was he now? How on earth did all that water get there? Why hadn’t the Professor been surprised to see it there, and since when could he understand whale talk? There was so many questions buzzing in my mind, and the more I thought about it, the more my fear for the Professor grew. 

I rested my head back against the chair, staring up at the starless black night sky, and forced myself to blink, as for a moment my vision blurred with the strong pull of sleep. I sat up and shook my head to clear it, but if anything my vision became more blurred, the way it does if you’re looking through water to the bottom of a lake. Bringing my hands up to rub my eyes sleepily, I let out a small gasp when I’d pulled them away, as I took in my surroundings. 

Thinking to myself, “Toto, we’re not in Kansa anymore.” I stared flabbergasted at the small, busy diner I now stood in. The place had an almost retro throwback decoration to it, a mix of vintage 1950’s artwork and slightly more modern 70’s themed colours, dark orange table tops, and 1950’s salt and sugar shakers on every table. Most surprising of all, was the fact that now noticed a familiar figure sitting down in one of the window temporarily ignoring a cinnamon pastry and a mug of coffee, as they tried to stuff about 30 paper-napkins back into the broken napkin holder.

I shook my head in disbelief, even in my dreams, I’d be guilty of clumsily breaking something. Because, sure enough, as I moved closer to the woman, I realise that the guilty individual was me. I was wearing my only professional blue blouse shirt, white blazer and dark blue pants, probably the only outfit that I contained in my closet that looked remotely close to office wear; a far cry from my usual neat jeans, woolen cardigans and pastel coloured shirts. 

I took the booth chair opposite myself, taking a moment to study how I looked from an outside perspective, so to speak. I considered myself to have one of those faces that could be both pretty and ugly. I had sharp features, a slim nose, oval shaped face and a strong chin. When I smiled only my bottom teeth showed. My face was too strong to be considered the ‘typical’ beauty. From many angles I could look down-right ugly, but I liked to fancy that sometimes, when I dressed myself up, I could even look pretty. I glanced out the side of the window; I was only vaguely familiar with this part of the city. I looked back at myself, now fiddling nervously with the ten remaining napkins that somehow wouldn’t fit back in their container. 

“Might I just say how ravishing you’re looking today.” I said in mock flattery, snorting at my own joke, and then waited expectantly for myself to laugh too, figuring if it cracked me up, then it should also make the other me laugh. Boy, was that a bizarre thought. 

“You come here often?” I tried again, since my last joke hadn’t aroused any reaction from myself. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, staring at the other me. Watching myself as I looked outside the window, apparently unable to hear me, or just pointedly ignoring me. 

I wasn’t sure which alternative was worse. The fact that maybe I was stuck in a dream where all I could do was sit there and watch myself break-napkin holders in an outer-body experience, incapable of interacting with my surroundings, or the possibility that maybe I could see me, and just didn’t want to be seen associating with myself. Because, if it was the latter, then I was just rude, and I seriously wonder what that said about the condition of my psych. 

 

The sound of a small metal bell above the door jinggling made both of me look up, as yet another unmistakable figure walked uncertainly into the diner. Too tall for the door frame he had to hunch his shoulders, pausing a moment to hold the door open for an older man leaving the shop. My mouth dropped open, I made a noise like a goat bleating (hey, at least it’s an improvement on my previous banshee imitations), and I stood up so quickly I knocked the tabletop with my hip, jostling the table and knocking the salt container to the floor.

“Damit it.” I heard myself whisper, as I realized that it hadn’t been me, so much as the dream version of myself who had actually knocked the salt jar over. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that the other me would do something like that, and considering I couldn’t actually interact with my surroundings, it made a lot more sense for the Dream-me to have been responsible for knocked the table. 

The young man’s head whipped in my direction, and I open and closed my mouth, watching in astonishment as he strode over, knelt down and started helping Dream-me scoop up the salt now spilt all over the floor. Dream-me was kneeling down trying to clean up the mess with some of the leftover napkins, while I stood watching the young man’s head, full of all too familiar black wavy curls bob about and I listened astonished to the exchange between us, them, err, whatever. 

“I’m uhm, sorry, you don’t, you don’t have to help.” Dream-me mumbled apologetically. 

“No. No it’s all right, I don’t mind. I like helping.” The young man reassured, pushing up the bridge of his nose black framed glasses, giving a familiar, good-natured laugh as he knelt back on his heels. 

Picking up the salt container, dream-me joked, “I don’t usually a-salt people on my first meeting with them.” Holding out my hand, Dream-me offered, “I’m Jamie.” 

Superman, because brown-coat jacket, checkered-shirt and oxford shoes aside, it was unmistakably Superman, enquired, “As in, Jamie Bayliss?” Dream-me nodded that yes it was, and then smiling, Superman said, “I’m Clark Kent, from the Daily Planet.” 

“What?!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, my hand coming up to cover my face, “You’re kidding me! Clark Kent, but that’s, Clark Kent is so normal!” I’d jumped up onto the chair, and was waving my hands up and down in excitement, watching in disbelief as Superman, no, Clark Kent and Dream-me shook hands.

“Clark Kent!” I yelled again, running my fingers through my hair and breathing heavily, “I, that’s so, American….” I trailed off, before shouting in realization again, “You work for the Daily Planet! Don’t you already have a full-time job saving people! How is this even possible?” I barely noticed a waitress come over with a broom and pan, telling Dream-me not to worry about the mess and enjoy my lunch, and then Clark Kent and Dream-me walked back over to our tables, talking about some email he’d sent me. 

I jumped back off the chair, and scuttled backwards, as Clark sat down on my side of the booth, and Dream-me sat on the other. “You know,” Clark began, in an almost embarrassed voice, “I wasn’t expecting to meet with a woman. I assumed from your name, and your profession, that you were a man.” He smiled, his cheeks dimpling, and I wondered if Dream-me was as affected by that one expression as I was, openly staring at him now that I wasn’t in any danger of being caught ogling him.

Dream-me looked down at my her lap and shrugged her shoulders, blushing slightly. Which was weird, I hadn’t known until just now that I blushed, “Yeah, I get that a lot.” Clearly the dream version of me was equally smitten with those dimples just as much as I was, otherwise my responce to that comment was usually more sassy. 

Adding to the conversation, I said, “Yeah, we do get that a lot.” Even though I knew that no one could hear me. 

Clark nodded, and began, “If you don’t mind could we…” at the exact same time that I started “I only have a short lunch-break so…” We both stopped short, smiled at each other and then I quickly gestured for Clark to continue, “I was just going to say that I don’t have very long to spare. Lois and I have to catch a plane in an hour, and I didn’t mean to be here this late.” He smiled apologetically, leaning closer with one of his forearms on the table, “What err, what were you going to say before I so rudely interrupted.” 

Dream-me blushed again, and I wondered if that was something I did a lot, and if when Clark said ‘I didn’t mean to be here this late’, he really meant I got caught up saving some old lady from a burning building’ or something else as equally heroic.

Dream-me blurted out, “No, no I was actually going to say the same thing, except you know, minus the flying with my girlfriend part. I mean uh, not that I have a girlfriend,and not that you fly, because girls aren’t my, well there not…. And that’s what planes are for... Sorry.” I added, “Sometimes my mouth keeps talking before my brain has a chance to catch up.” 

“No, no it’s all right. But I feel obligated to mention that Lois isn’t my girlfriend, she’s a work colleague of mine, and she’d be the first to point that out.” He jovially said, and yet, I noticed when Clark spoke, he didn’t smile, and his shoulders had dropped. 

Dream-me must have picked up on that too, again not exactly surprising considering she would notice what I notice, and said compassionately, “That’s her loss.” 

Clark didn’t smile, but his gaze rested thoughtfully on Dream-me’s face, saying softly, “Thank you.” 

Dream-me shook her head unconsciously, breaking the spell of the moment, “Uhm, no problem, sorry again it’s not really my business.” Changing the subject back to the apparent reason for the meeting, Dream-me continued, “But uh, I think I can help you with the information you’re after for the piece you’re writing.”

For a moment Clark’s words became distorted and muffled, and I thought I felt his hand touch my shoulder. I stared at Clark and Dream-me, and I reached out to touch Clark’s arm with my fingers, but it didn’t produce any reaction from him. His word became clearer for a moment, and then I lost the ability to hear what he was saying all together as my surrounding became blurry and began to sway back and forth, the sensation akin to standing on a boat deck, or being rocked in someone’s arms. Then, the way that the surface of a pool ripples so that you can’t see your reflection anymore, my surroundings shifted and dissolved out of focus. 

Now I felt the smooth texture of my pillowcase underneath my chin, and my limbs felt heavy with an unsual, overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. Too tired to open my eyes, I sighed happily as I felt someone pull my doona cover up over me, and I wrapped my hand around the fingers still grasping the doona.

“Thanks” I whispered, before the hand gave mine a gentle squeeze, slowly untangled our fingers, and without the usual telltale squeak of wooden floor boards, or knocking over of my textbooks, I knew they’d left my room.


	10. Patel's Office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Everyone, thanks so much for sticking with me. And thank you endlessly for your feedback and encouragement.... Really wouldn't have made it this far without you all. I feel like that end is in sight, a bitter sweet feeling really. Both happy to be pumping work out again, and sad that it's nearly done.

I knew I was dreaming again, because despite how real everything felt, smelt and looked, all I could do was watch myself like I had last time. Unable to interact with anything or anyone around me, which was a pity, because I was hungry, and the donut Belinda was eating right now looked pretty delicious. 

Through her mouthful, Belinda said, “I’m just saying, this Kent guy finished his article like a month back, and you’re still meeting-up weekly at that same diner. It seems pretty obvious to me, he likes you!” 

The dream-me, self-consciously pulled at the buttons on her cotton cardigan, scuffing her foot along the cobblestone floor. Belinda and I sat on the ledge of a water fountain, which I knew to be, in the heart of Metropolis, enjoying a hot coffee and sugary donuts. The dream version of myself avoided Belinda’s eyes, staring instead at the newspaper article, the day’s date, April 11th just visible from where it was tucked underneath the crook of one of her arms.

Belinda peered at her sister, swallowed her mouthful and, before dream-me had the chance to say anything in objection elaborated, “And don’t say he’s just asking to have coffee with you all the time because he’s planning on writing another article. ‘Cause that just means he doesn't have the courage to ask you out on an official date.” 

Dream-me shook her head, meeting Belinda’s accusing gaze, “No it’s not like that, we’re just friends. Besides, even if I did, and I’m not saying I do have feelings for him, he’s interested in someone else.” 

Belinda tilted her head in curiosity, an unspoken signal I knew to mean, ‘please elaborate’. The dream version of myself sighed, and between nibbles on a chocolate donut, explained, “There’s this girl he works with who he’s liked, no, loved for years.And when he told her how he felt about her, Lois told him that she had feelings, and get this of all people, for Superman, and that she could never love him.” 

Belinda frowned, crossing her arms thoughtfully, “That seems pretty strange. Blowing off someone as nice as this Kent guy, for someone that all of Metropolis is in love with.” 

The dream-me shook her head again, and curious now, I sat down to listen, intrigued by the elaborate twist this strange dream was taking. “Yeah, I pretty much said that to Clark too, but he seems to think that Lois and Superman have something special between them. I dunno know, I don’t fully get it, but he reckon’s Lois has such a dangerous job that Superman keeps winding up having to save her all the time, and because of that, Superman and Lois have gotten to know each other, really well.” 

Belinda snorted dryly, “So in other words, Lois is a helpless damsel who has some unhealthy hero worship going on for Superman.” 

“Maybe, that’s hard to tell.” The dream-me nodded thoughtfully. “ I’ve never met Lois before, but I doubt Clark would like someone if they were constantly putting themselves in danger just to meet Superman. Anyways, I guess at the end of the day, all I’m saying is that, it doesn't matter how I feel about Clark, because Clark still likes Lois. We’re just friends.” 

Belinda finished off the last of her coffee, scrunching up the paper bag the donuts had come in, “People who are ‘just friends’ don’t talk about their exes, or deep meaningful feelings.” Belinda said with an air of condescension. 

Belinda’s phone began to buzz, and she shrugged apologetically, pulling it out of her coat pocket and answering, “Detective Bayliss.” She hummed, then asked, “How long ago?” Hummed again, and then added “I’ll be there as soon as possible.” 

Belinda lent in and gave Dream-me a hug goodbye, explaining “There’s been a break-in at the Metropolis Museum, about an hour ago, they think it might have been professionals.” 

“In broad daylight? How did they manage to do that without anybody noticing?” Dream-me’s hand crossed across her chest, indicating her concern.

Belinda shrugged, gave Dream-me a squeeze on the arm, saying “They didn’t pull it off without anybody noticing, two security guards were shot.” 

Unexpectedly my phone vibrated loudly, the fountain, Belinda, and Dream-me dissolving in rippling waves, so that I sat up in bed, startled awake. 

Somewhat frustrated, wanting to know what was about to happen next in my dream, I Kicked my doona off and sat up. Thumping around my drawer top, until I found my phone. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes I answered, “Hello, it’s Jamie speaking.”

“Hello Jamie. It’s Lynda Brett, the manager of Metropolis Museum,” Lynda paused for emphasis, her New York accent clipped and short. I shook my head in exasperation, thinking to myself, that despite trying, I couldn't forget my old boss. 

She continued, “Your old co-worker Mr Patel has gone missing, and I need to clean his office out for various reasons, by 2 this afternoon. Considering his closest relatives are in India and I won’t wait until they arrive in Metropolis, you’ll just have to do. His key will be in his pigeon hole.” 

My eyes widened, and forcing myself to keep my anger out of my voice, I replied “With respect Ms Brett, the Professor hasn’t even been declared missing for more than 24 hours, and you want me to clean his office out?” 

“That would be incorrect, Miss Bayliss. The Professor has been missing for more than 24 hours as far as the museum is concerned, he hasn’t shown up for work even once in the last 3 months, so now that the Police have declared him missing, I am legally allowed to remove his possessions from his office.” Concern arose in me, knowing that it was seriously unusual for the professor not to show up to work. His jobs was his life’s passion. 

“Ms Brett, I don’t understand. Why do you need his office cleaned out? Don’t you think you should leave everything there in case the police want to look through anything?”

“No Miss Bayliss. I don’t want to leave his unkempt office the way it is. I don’t expect you to understand, but people like you will never understand that for progress to be made, sometimes you have to be prepared to knock down a few buildings.” She clipped at me tersely.

“Lynda” I almost yelled through the phone, “you can’t just go moving the Professor’s stuff. Some of his collections are breakable! You can’t just go in there, and, and …-”

With an exasperated sigh, and in a sickly sweet voice, Lynda Brett cut me off, “Yes. I know that, beside the fact that I would never dream of touching his worthless collections myself, you should remember, I’m not ringing you up for no reason Jamie. I’m asking YOU to move his things, otherwise if they’re not gone by three this afternoon, I’ll be donating all his possessions to the Metropolis tip.” Rage welled up inside of me, and with all the force that my thumb finger possessed, I shoved down on the hang-up button. 

Throwing my phone down onto the bed, I grabbed my pillow and started pummeling it with my fists, screaming “You stupid, stupid, stupid-head! STUUUUPID-head. How dare she! What a Stupid-head!”. Bringing my pillow up to my face, I screamed in anger, and then threw it half-way across my room, where it landed and toppled over a pile of books. 

I hurriedly changed into my clothes, muttering under my breath about how stuck-up, arrogant, inconsiderate, and selfish Ms Brett was. I couldn’t believe that someone who had such blatant disregard for anything “old”, had gotten to be the manager of the Metropolis Museum. I mean really, a museum is basically an officially designated building for hoarding “old” stuff. As I thumped about the kitchen and lounge-room, looking for empty boxes and bags to put Professor Patel’s stuff in, I heard a half-amused, half-asleep voice emerging from Harry’s room, “What on earth has got you so mad you’re yelling in Latin again?”

I blinked in surprise, I hadn’t realised I’d been yelling in Latin, but then again, that wasn’t exactly unusual for me. Momentarily dropping the pile of boxes I’d been holding, I stormed into Harry’s room. He lay stretched out on his bed, his hair sitting up from his forehead, his mouth curved in a sleepy smile, and his freckled foot poking out from underneath his doona. 

Trying to control my yelling, I quickly explained to Harry that I had 5 hours to go and clean out Mr Patel’s office, because one of the Professor’s jealous, aristocratic co-workers had now gotten the excuse she’d always been looking for, so that she could renovate that area of the museum. 

Harry, as usual, was quick to offer his help. 

Within half an hour, we’d managed to find some more boxes, gotten in Harry’s car, driven down to the museum, found the Professor’s key to his office, and let ourselves into the old, overcrowded room. It was fortunate for Ms Brett, that now I was not employed by the museum (no thanks to her), that we did not happen to cross paths, as I was more than ready to verbally dismember her. 

I patted Harry reassuringly on his shoulder as we entered the room, and I saw his eyes widen, as he surveyed the chaotic office. The walls were lined with coin collections in glass-cases, shoved so close up together that their frames touched. Shelves were piled high with boxes of old weapons, throwing knives, rings, books and pens. There were also opened crates of books still sitting where the Professor had last been reading them. Papers literally covered and were caught between every object in the room; stapled to the wall, underneath books, sitting behind a medieval helmet. Ranging from newspaper articles to scribbles of ancient languages. As Harry’s face deepened into a frown, mine lit up with a smile. 

I could almost see the Professor and I opening up one of the new crate’s he’d ordered, spending the next few hours pouring over books, and only stopping every once in a while, to excitedly point out a particular passage that supported or contested our new findings on whatever we were researching. 

The place smelt and looked then, as it did now; the distinct odour of Camembert cheese permeating the air, and with the scribblings of a genius covering every available space. I realised with a wave of emotion, that I had missed being in here; that I missed working at the museum. 

“It’s horrifying,” Harry gasped, “How on earth did you manage to work in this everyday?” 

I laughed, “Very happily actually.” I shoved a box into Harry’s arms, “If you want to get started on picking up some of the papers, I’ll get started on emptying out his desk.”

Harry began vigorously snatching papers out of the various nooks and crannies, then folding them neatly into the boxes, while I began slowly emptying out each of Mr Patel’s drawers. I felt somewhat guilty for doing so, as it had always been an unspoken rule that the Professor’s desk drawers were off limits.

I had long since suspected that he kept letters and pictures from his deceased wife in there, and I wasn’t at all surprised to find out that I was correct. I carefully put the letters into the box, with the photo beside them, reassuring myself that even though I felt like I was prying into the most private aspects of his life, it was better that I did it, rather than Harry. Somehow I knew the Professor wouldn’t have wanted anybody else but me doing this job. He rarely spoke of how his wife died, but I knew that it had devastated him. 

I glanced inside the drawer one last time to make sure I hadn’t missed emptying anything, and closed the door, about to move onto the next one, when I heard a distinct, but muffled rattling noise. As if something was loose inside, and had rolled backwards as I had closed the drawer. 

Thinking that I had missed picking up something inside, I opened the drawer, listening for the sound this time. As I did, I heard it again, but peering inside I couldn’t see anything. Frowning in curiosity, I leant forward and ran my fingers over the bottom of the drawer, thinking that in the dim lamp light I had missed whatever was making that noise. I found nothing at first, except for a long, thin crack that ran along the back of the drawer. Pushing gently on it with my nail, I was surprised to find that the whole bottom of the drawer sprung up, revealing a false-bottom.

Lifting out the false lid, there was another, very small compartment underneath, and sitting there covered in layers of dust, was a surprising, but familiar coin. I took a breath in, bewildered by my finding. It was the same type of coin the Professor had pressed into my hand, right before he’d disappeared into the wave in the alleyway. For some reason I hesitated before picking it up, as if some part of me recognised that what I had found was significant in someway, and I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to take the coin, with me. It was silly to think that an old coin could somehow be linked to what had happened to the Professor, a clue perhaps, but nothing else. So instead I shrugged my shoulders and picked the coin up, putting it into my zip-up jacket pocket. 

I glanced up at Harry, amused to see the dumbfounded expression on his face, as he stared, captivated by the photo he held in his hand. His jaw worked, as he swallowed and shifted the picture in his hand, using the light streaming through one of the windows to see the picture better by. 

Without saying anything, I moved over to Harry’s side, peering down at the photo too, trying to figure out what had gotten Harry’s attention. It was a photo obviously taken in the 70’s, judging by the quality of the print and the faint yellowing of the acid in the paper. 

Professor Patel stood in front of a row of crumbling pillars, which I instantly recognised as one of the temple’s dedicated to the Greek god Poseidon, one hand holding up a trovel in excitement, and the other wrapped in the hand of his wife. She stood leaning into Patel’s side. Her hair half covering her face, but a clear smile lighting up her features. 

I raised my eyebrows and asked Harry, “What’s so interesting?” Nudging him gently in the side as I did. 

Harry lifted his finger up and pointed to a tall, lean looking woman who I hadn’t noticed a second ago, half-blurred by movement, apparently running towards the Professor and his wife. She wore a dark green and blue mottled robe, and to my astonishment, was holding the biggest, crazy sharp looking harpoon I had ever seen, raised high above her head. She had dark skin, and gorgeously thick hair, and despite all the muscles bulging, what struck me the most about her, was how out of place she seemed in the photo, which would have otherwise been a sweet photo of the Professor and his wife. 

“Wow, that’s… odd.” I commented, tilting my head to the side, and scanning the rest of the picture, in case there was another bizarre warrior hiding amongst the crowd in the background. 

Harry shook his head, in apparent shock, “I, I ran into her just the other day….”

I looked up from the photo and up at Harry, his eyes squinting as he tried to draw the pieces of this apparent puzzle together.

“Where did you run into her?” I wondered.

“Well” Harry paused, his face quirking into his signature sideways smile, “The better question is probably, with what did I run into her with?” 

Sensing that there was an amusing story in that explanation somewhere, I pressed, “What do you mean?”

“You know how I said that my car was hit by another car a while ago. I lied.” Harry swallowed a little ruefully. “I ran into her. She just sort of appeared out of no-where, and then” Harry mimicked a car driving along and then smashing into his finger with his hands, to show how he’d plowed right into the little old lady with his car. He looked at me, and then made a delayed ‘tyer-screashing, car smashing’ with this mouth. 

“What?!” I yelled, leaping back in utter confusion, and glaring at him accusingly. “You’re telling me you ran someone over with your car. You just…” I copied his earlier hand movements and screeching noises, and then continued, “You ran some old lady down, and only now you’re telling me this?” 

“Well” Harry began, but then he shrugged. “I couldn’t believe it either.” 

I shook my head, not comprehending that my cousin had ran someone over, lied about it, and then confessing it to me now. “Is that old lady all right?” I whispered, thinking back to all the bruises on Harry from the car’s crash impact, and fearing the worst for the woman. 

Harry nodded slowly, and let out a pent-up breath, “Yeah, see, that’s the bit I don’t really get. She was fine, perfectly fine. I ran into her with my car, the car was a ride-off, and she just sort of picked herself up from the ground, and came over to me, to see if I was alright.”

At this strange development, I crossed my arms over my chest, and asked, “Are you sure you hit her with your car?” 

Harry nodded solemnly, “There’s no way I could have missed her. Besides, I checked the car afterwards, and there’s sort of her butt-cheeks indented into the car from where I must have hit her.” He mimed the rough sort of shape of two bottom cheeks for me, and added as an afterthought, “It’s not like we haven’t seen weirder things.”

I tried racking my brains for an answer to this extraordinary tale, “Maybe she’s related to Superman. I mean, someone had to teach him how to cook like he can, and she’d certainly be old enough to be his mother.”

Harry pulled a sheepish face, and tucking his arms underneath his armpits awkwardly, he replied, “No, well she’s not old enough to be his mother. She’s, well she looks just as beautiful as….” He stopped midway through his sentence, and then amended, “She doesn't look a day over 30.” 

“But how is that possible?” 

Harry shrugged again, as if to say he didn’t know either, and was about to say something to me, when he seemed to be surprised by something, or someone behind me as the door hinges gave a rusty squeak.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I can say is, please don't hate me!  
> Haha, lol. Oh dear. I thought, planned, and then re-thought how to write this so many times. I was in agony writing. It really wasn't easy. But I could think of no other way around all these plot points, something had to be done... and well, please don't hate me...haha. 
> 
> I would say enjoy, but eh, yep. You'll see why I hesitate to say that. :P

I turned to look around, and saw two enormously tall men standing in the doorway, wearing black suits, and I frowned. There was something uncomfortably familiar about them, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, as I unconsciously took a step backwards. 

“Can we help you gentlemen?” Harry asked politely. 

The fatter of the two men, his eyes fixed to my face, growled out, “Yeah, you can leave.”

“Excuse me, but we’re in here cleaning up. Who exactly are you?” I demanded with a frown.

Now the other man, who had been looking slowly and deliberately around the room, turned to look at me, and I noticed that his nose sat on a crooked angle, as if it had been badly broken, and now made his whole face seem comically lopsided, in what might have been an otherwise handsome face. 

“We’re not here for you this time Miss Bayliss. I suggest you leave, and stop asking anymore questions.” As he spoke, he looked deliberately down at his belt, and drew back his jacket to flash the unmistakable holster of a gun. 

I swallowed with apprehension, something familiar about the two men still niggling at the back of my mind, “You have no right to come in here and try to intimidate us.” i said a little shakily. 

The man with the broken nose spoke up before I had a chance to say anything else. “We’re not trying to intimidate you Miss Bayliss. I’m simply telling you to leave, before anything unpleasant happens.” He and his partner took a step forward out of the doorway, his gaze sliding away from me and looking possessively around the room, as if he’d already dismissed me and moved on. 

I stepped forward too, for a moment forgetting the gun, “I think you…” I began, before I felt firm pressure on my arm, as Harry began to tug me forwards and pulled me around the two men and out of the room, throwing back over his shoulder “My apologies gentlemen. Stay as long as you like.” How was it, that even in a situation akin to a hold-up, Harry managed to be polite? 

As Harry walked swiftly down the hallway he didn’t let go of my arms, and pushed us forwards in a hurry to put as much distance between us and them as possible.

“Harry” I hissed, “What are you doing? We can’t leave them in there with the Professor’s stuff! We have no idea what they could take or what they want.” 

We’d come out into the centre of the museum before Harry replied, the vast room lit up by the large skylight. The place was mostly empty, except for the occasional tourist moving about the main hall. He stopped, breathless and let go of my arms, facing me he snapped, “Are you out of your mind Jamie! They had a gun, and you want to argue with them about it because, even though they gave us an exit, you want to stay and… and what? Fight them? Are you nuts!”

Taken aback, I struggled to find a response to that. “Well I…”

A look of realisation crossed over Harry’s face, shaking his head and throwing his hands up in disbelief he said, “You were, weren’t you! You actually thought it would be a good idea to try and stop them.” Then he snorted, “Who am I kidding?! You never think, do you Jamie! You never think.” 

Stunned by the anger in his voice, which was such an unusual emotion for Harry I yelled, “I couldn’t just leave them in there to damage Patel’s life’s work!” 

Harry yelled back, “They had guns Jamie. Get that into your head. This is a perfect example of you not thinking about the consequences! You never think, and it’s always getting you into trouble. You didn’t think about keeping your mouth shut on that Bank roof, and you didn’t think in there either. The stuff you do doesn't just affect you. One of these days, have you ever thought that maybe the consequences of your actions could hurt someone else!” 

I should have kept my mouth shut, I should have thought about what I was about to say. But Harry was right, I never did stop long enough to think about the consequences. So instead, I said in a pain fueled voice, “You know what Harry, maybe I am always getting myself into trouble, but at least I’m not such a coward that I hide from actually living my life. Never chasing after my dreams because I’m too afraid of getting hurt. You only live with us, because you feel it gives you an excuse not to actually go out into the world, be brave, and do something with your life. Yes, Anne died Harry, but that was years ago now. ” 

Before I was even finished, there were tears in Harry’s eyes, and they ran over when I stooped so low as to mentioned the name of his dead wife. I regretted what I’d said the moment I was done. I may have said the truth, but it was not the truth spoken in love. I’d twisted the facts to deliver a spite filled jab. I could see by the hurt in his eyes, the cruel words had found their mark, and stabbed his already broken and vulnerable heart. 

We stood for a moment, staring at eachother, still reeling from what we’d just said. I swallowed, several times, but as hard as I tried to form the simple phrase, “I’m sorry” with my mouth, they never came out. 

Not directly addressing my words, skirting around the hurtful things I said, Harry had the grace to say, “I suppose you don’t really care about the Professor’s things, I realise now that Professor Patel meant more to you than what I’d thought. I shouldn’t have rushed us out of there the way I did. I can see that now….” he spoke haltingly, the usual flow from his words gone, and wiped a tear away from his cheek. Subconsciously he’d turned his body away from mine, as if to hide the pain I’d caused, from the purpetrator. 

I lifted my hand up to touch his shoulder, “Yeah, I don’t really care about his book collection. It’s just that they meant so much to him, but you were right to do what you did….” but as soon as I’d touched his shoulder, Harry moved out of reach. His arms coming up protectively across his chest. 

I blinked in surprise; not sure what to do now, to make what I’d said better. An apology felt too hollow, too meaningless for what I’d just done. 

There was a shout in the distance, and it took me a little while to realise, as the shouting got closer and nearer that two of the voices were familiar. The museum fire alarm sounded, and Harry and I both turned to face the noise, in time to see the two men from earlier charging forwards, their guns in their hands and three security guards chasing after them. 

The man from earlier with the crooked nose, skidded to a halt in the centre of the room, lifted his gun up and fired. Several tourists immediately screaming and dropping to the floor in fear, and the three security guards coming to a halt in the entrance. The security guards stood uncertainly, seeming to be weighing up their options. The distance to shock the men in suits with their taser guns, was laughably too far. 

I don’t know if Harry realised it, but he instinctively reached forwards and held my hand. His warmth giving me reassurance that I wasn’t alone.

Seeing his advantage, the man with the crooked nose roared, “Put down your weapons.” For a moment the security guards didn’t move, and the only sound in the room was someone sobbing on the floor, and the wail of the alarm. Both Harry and I stood frozen still by fear, towards the side of the room. I desperately hoped they wouldn't see either Harry or me. 

This time the fatter one lifted up his gun and shot at the roof, narrowly missing the skylight, and yelled, “Put your weapons down now, or someone’s gonna get hurt.” 

This time the security guards were quick to follow, lowering their tasers on the floor, and complying with instructions from the two men, got down face first on the ground. 

The man with the crooked nose sniffed, and then his eyes swept the room again, settling on me. We locked eyes, and he said dangerously, “You have something that doesn't belong to you Bayliss, and this time I don’t have any orders to take you in unharmed, so you had better give it to me.” I flinched with his every word. 

Besides the fact that I had no idea what the “orders to take you in unharmed this time” comment was referring to, I was genuinely confused. “I uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I stammered, trying to make my voice cary across the hall. 

“We want the coin”, the fat one spat. 

Harry spoke up for me, “She doesn't have any coin.” As he stepped protectively closer behind me. 

“Don’t take another step forward, or I’ll have to put a bullet in you.” The fat one threatened Harry. I could hear Harry's breathing increase, obviously as scared as I was, but although he didn't move forward, he didn't step back either. 

The other fat man just sniffed again, “You’re lying. Come here Bayliss.” 

I shook my head, my heart pounding and hands shaking; there was no way I wanted to come anywhere near that guy, as very slowly, it began to dawn on me where I recognised these two men. Last Halloween only increasing my concern that these two men would follow through on their threats. 

“Fine have it your way.” the crooked nosed man sneered, and motioning for the other man to join him, the two began walking towards me, closing the small distance between us within a moment. I barely heard the muffled whimpers of the remaining tourist crouched down on the floor, I was so fixated on the two thugs from that night on Halloween, realising that the two men were the same, and I was now seeing their faces, previously hidden behind their white masks and spandex the last time I'd met them, for the first time. 

The man with the broken nose, clearly the leader between the two, directed his word over my shoulder to Harry, “Don’t anyone move or I’ll start shooting.” Then, in a sensation that was cruelly familiar, I felt the cold round barrel of a gun shoved against my chest, over my heart. 

In many ways it was a theatrical gesture, a one-sided power-play. It really wasn't necessary. I was fairly certain it was clear to everyone in the room that I would have given all the coins I ever owned to this man without a second's hesitation, without him needing to press the gun point blank against me. But I could see by the malicious glint in the man's eyes, that he remembered me too, and I wondered fleetingly if he'd been the one I`d hit in the crotch. I wished I could do it again. 

“I have it. I have it here.” I answered. 

My hand went towards my pocket for the coin; and I didn’t think. I didn’t think that it looked like I was going for a weapon. It didn’t occur to me that the two men presumed that I was reaching for a gun.

In a moment, that was too quick for me to react, I saw Harry lunge forward, crashing into the side of the man who was pressing the gun against my chest, both of them tumbling to the floor. While the fatter man, obviously deciding that in the struggle between Harry and his partner he might shoot the wrong man, instead swung his gun around to point at me and pressed down on the trigger. 

There was a series of guns shots, first one, followed by two more. In a loud shattering noise, one of the bullets missed their intended target. The skylight above was struck, and glass came raining down all over the floor with a chiming tinkle, then there was an awful silence. 

I took in a shuddering breath, my eyes pressed closed. Feeling as if there was a tight vice compressing my chest. All I heard was white noise, my senses completely shutting down. 

I waited for the pain to wash over me, spreading out from my chest. Except it didn`t. 

Instead there was warmth that radiated across my body, covering my chest, to the side of my neck and face, and down my legs. The heat came from an outside source, not from pain. Slowly I realised that I was being gripped by two large arms, held up against a solid, warm object. Confused for a moment, because go easy on me, panic does that to a person, it took me a moment to realise what had happened. 

Instinctively I wrapped my arms around him, opening my eyes, knowing even before I did, that it was Superman holding me. He held me so that his body had acted as the shield between me and the fat man’s bullet, his face now tilted down to me. His head and shoulders blocking out my view of the rest of the room.

Our eyes met and held gazes, as he asked, his hand coming up to grasp the back of my head, “Are you alright?” I nodded mutely, a smile I couldn’t suppress spreading across my features, and I saw myself reflected in the dark blue of his eyes.

It sounded dumb even to me, but all I could think to say was, “You’re here. Again.”

As Superman still held me, and nodded, my surroundings came rushing back in, first the noise; the alarms, the pained groaning, someone sobbing, and then the light reflecting off all the glass now covering the floor. I sighed in relief, my body relaxing, knowing that everything was going to be all right now that Superman was here. Only, I was wrong, very, very wrong. 

Over all the other noises, one groan caught my attention. It was more of a gasp, as if the person was in so much pain that they couldn’t breath properly, and horrifyingly, I recognised who it belonged to. 

A cold chill swept across me and my smile fell. Superman felt the tensing of my body and still staring at me face he whispered, “What’s wrong?” 

Without a word, I pushed away from Superman and stepped to the side, dreading what I would see. 

Everywhere there was fine shards of glass, catching the sunlight flowing through the gap in the roof, making the room glitter like I imagined an ethereal fairy castle would be decorated, while those who had been crouching on the floor were standing up, mostly unharmed and staring around in shock and wonder. 

Almost in the centre of the room, the man with the crooked nose had scrambled away from my supine cousin, surprise on his features and his eyes skittering over the room looking for an exit, even as one of the security guards moved over with his taser gun, arresting him as I watched. I was aware that the other two security guards were in the process of tackling and restraining the fatter man to the ground.

A gun lay beside my cousin, where it had obviously been knocked out of someone’s hand shortly after it had been fired. Now, the pool of blood rapidly spreading outwards from my cousin, reached the gun and cover the side lying on the ground with it’s dark stain.

I had ran to him, my knees collapsing as I dropped down by his side, unable to feel the warm blood soaking through my pants, or the shards of glass digging into my legs. I repeated his name over and over again, one hand gripping his, the other reaching over his shirt and trying to press down on the bleeding. I heard him gasp again, his eyes rolling back in his head with pain as I pressed down, but all I could think was that I needed to stop the bleeding. 

Superman now stood over Harry, his eyes scanning him up and down, as if he could see right through Harry to the extent of his injury. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Harry’s blood covered abdomen, my hand still pressing down on his the bullet wound through his shirt. 

Superman knelt down beside me, despite how close he was to me his voice was loud and strong. “Jamie, you need to trust me. Harry’s going to die if you don’t let me move him.”

I nodded, tears streaming down my face and blurring my vision, Superman’s hand coming to cover mine, “You need to move your hand, let me help him Jamie.” I nodded my head again, but I couldn’t seem to move my hand that was slowing down Harry’s bleeding. 

Gently, firmly, Superman laced our fingers together, slick and wet with Harry’s blood, he pulled my hand away from Harry’s wound, and the blood began to flow out quicker. 

Superman lent forward and bracing Harry’s his hips with one arm, and lifting his shoulders up with the other, he lifted Harry up. “Stop” I shouted, “You could be causing spinal injuries moving him like that.” 

Superman’s lips were pressed into a grim, hard line, “I’m sorry, but the damage is already done, it won’t matter now. I need to get him to surgery before he loses any more blood.” 

I nodded my consent, and Superman flew away with my cousin in his arms in the direction of the hospital a few blocks away, faster than I had ever seen him fly with someone before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're heart isn't broken. Mine kinda was. I mean, that really hurt to write. What did you think?  
> Very serious I know, not eactly the funnies that you're all used to, but, well, like I said, it had to happen.
> 
> Let me know how it went reading this.  
> Ugh, I'm actually so nervous about how you're going to take this chapter.   
> BUT, because I do actually care about how you're all feeling, I'll post the next chapter asap. Which hopefully leave it on a little bit less of a cliff-hanger. Not that, obviously the nest chapter is all rainbows and sunshine, considering what's just happened.   
> Thanks for all the support (but, eh, maybe you wouldn't be so supportive if you knew what I'd been writing aye)?  
> #SorryNotSorry.


	12. The Significance of a Madman's Journal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, give me da comments you lovely people you... (I think?) I wanna know what your reactions are.   
> Haha, I feel like every time I get close to answering a question that you might have about the story, all I really do is leave more unanswered questions. But you know, hopefully you can start to see things really pulling together now.
> 
> Enjoy.

I didn’t wait around, I charged forwards, my shoes crunching over the glass and out the main entrance, pushing my way through the crowd of onlookers that had gathered outside the entrance, and past the police cars that were only now pulling up in front of the museum, their confused occupants tumbling out and racing toward the museum without a second glance at me or the crowd. 

My lungs screamed at me from exertion, and my legs felt wooden as if they weren’t really my own. I pelted down the streets of the three city blocks, recklessly across roads with busy traffic and finally bounded into the emergency room of the hospital. Only thoughts of Harry filling my mind. 

I panted out to the nurse at the front desk as swiftly as I could my situation, and nodded numbly when she told me that Harry had been taken to the emergency operating room, and that she’d give me updates as soon as more information was available. Then she ushered me into one of the admitting rooms, and cut open the part of my pants that were stained with blood. 

She looked at me with kindness in her eyes, and began talking to me as she started to pull out flecks of glass that were embedded in my skin, and dab ointment onto my legs, before putting large white bandages over my abrasions. She even washed my hands for me, so that they were no longer covered with Harry’s blood. Somehow, I felt that was symbolic; my hands being covered in Harry’s blood. 

Then I moved as if in a trance to one of the waiting room seats, and instead of sitting down, I stood in front of it, just starring at the chair. My mind couldn’t believe what had just happened. All I could see in front of me, were the non-too distant memories of Harry’s blood. Colouring the glass a startling, ruby red. 

A little while passed, and I just stood there, slowly swaying back and forwards. Thoughts, that this was all my fault, running over and over again. If I hadn’t provoked those two men, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. If Harry hadn’t tried to protect me, this wouldn’t have happened. If Superman had not decided to protect me, instead of Harry, this wouldn’t have happened. 

I didn’t want to think about what would happen if Harry died. My mind would begin to travel down that path, and then I would skitter away, not wanting to even allow myself to think of that possibility. Superman’s words, “the damage is already done” came in and out of focus. I didn’t want to believe that. 

Belinda came at some point, and we clung to each other, tears and snot inducing sobs escaping the both of us, oblivious to anyone else in the Emergency room. We were informed by a new nurse, hours later, that Harry was alive; he’d lost a lot of blood, but the bullet had been removed, and they were still in surgery. Even more hours later, as Belinda and I waited numbly, we were told that Harry had left surgery and was in the recovery room, waiting to be moved to the critical care unit. 

We slept fitfully in our waiting seats during the night, and at some point in the early hours of the next day, we were told that the surgeon wanted to speak to us. The Surgeon met us at the ICU, and walked us towards Harry’s bed. The Surgeon, a tall man still in his scrubs, calmly explained to us that Harry was currently sedated and on a machine to help him breathe, and all things considered, Harry had been very lucky to be flown into surgery as quickly as he had. 

The Doctor took a deep breath, and warned Belinda and I, “You should know, Harry has sustained considerable bruising to his spinal cord, and we’re almost certain that from now on, Harry’s life is going to look very different. We don’t believe that he’ll be able to use his legs. At this stage, we’re still not sure how far up the damage to his nerves extends; only time will tell for sure.” 

He said a lot of other things before he left us alone with Harry; like how long they expected to keep him on the breathing machine, when they might be able to fully assess the damage, how many months they expected Harry to be in the hospital, and that social services would be able to assist Harry with adjusting to his new life in a wheelchair. As I had listened, my heart dropped. 

Belinda and I stepped around the curtain, and I stared at Harry’s unconscious body. Tubes and wires protruded out from underneath the bed covers, monitors above his head flashing and beeping. His face half obscured by the large green mask connected to the breathing machine. The room felt too bright and the hospital smelt overwhelmingly of disinfectant. 

Belinda came around to kiss Harry’s forehead gently, slipping down into a single couch beside his bed, murmuring to him that he was “going to be ok now”. While I stood close to his bedside, holding his hand, silent tears slipping down my cheeks. 

We received phone call after phone call over the course of that day, Belinda explaining and reassuring relatives that Harry was alive, and that the operation was successful, unsure yet how to break the news to them that Harry was never going to walk again. 

I ate, slept very little, talked to my Uncle and Aunt, and greeted my other relatives, as the next few days passed, having to relive everything that happened at the museum every time I had to tell the story again. 

His vital signs became stable as the days went by, which was reassuring, and after three days they removed the breathing machine. Belinda, our Uncle and Aunt, and myself taking turns to watch over Harry as he slept.

I’d been staring at Harry’s face, peaceful and pale, his bright hair and freckles all the more obvious for the lack of colour in his cheeks. When his mother gently patted my shoulder, and with a reserved smile said, “I think it’s my turn now dear.” 

I nodded, stiffly standing up from the couch. “Perhaps you should go home dear. Get a proper night’s sleep.” 

I nodded again, feeling guiltily relieved by the idea of sleeping in my own bed. I caught the taxi home, somehow found my way upstairs, and rolled into bed. Where I tossed around for an hours or so, sleep eluding me, despite how exhausted I felt. 

Just as tired as before, I pulled myself out of bed, dragging my doona with me, as I took the steps again, and went to Harry and my spot up on the roof. Another tear slipping down my cheek, as I realised that Harry would never be able to come up here again. 

I slumped down on my sunchair, looking vacantly out at the evening sky, scuffing my foot back and forth along the concrete floor. I simply didn’t know what to do with myself now. 

I whispered to myself, “I never think of the consequences.” Thinking back, yet again to the argument Harry and I had at the museum. It was like Harry’s words had cut themselves, like a bleeding wound, onto my mind. Their truth never more apparent than having to watch Harry lying unconscious in the hospital. I felt like choking, reflecting on the bitter words I’d said to him, knowing that despite them, he’d essentially still taken a bullet for me. I didn’t deserve that kind of loving loyalty. 

Something made a metallic rasp as I moved my foot, and disinterested I bent over to look. Lifting my foot up, I found the original coin the Professor had given me, and realised that, as I had fallen asleep up here on the rooftop the evening of his disappearance, it must have slipped out of my hand. Intrigued now I picked it up, a mixture of fascination and anger bubbling up inside me. Afterall, everything at that museum had somehow been connected to these coins. 

As precious as they were to architects like the professor and myself, I just couldn’t imagine why two thugs, clearly possessing no real understanding of their historic value, would be willing to shoot a person over something, that when compared to all the other valuable items in that museum, was practically worthless. Even in this instance, the only reason the coin meant anything to me, other than the fact that it was rather old, was that it had clearly been important to the Professor.

Something, an idea, or several ideas started to niggle at the back of my mind. Like the individual strands of an intricate web were being tugged on, and I felt, more than I could put into words, that I was drawing back further from seemingly disconnected events, so that a bigger picture was just out of sight. I now understood, but not exactly, that the wave that had taken the professor, the trident symbol, and a literal web made out of red string, were all tied together, connected in a much larger way than what I had first suspected. 

I rolled the coin over in my palms, intensely staring at the trident on the front, and the carvings etched around the rim. A cold shiver swept across me, and filled with the energy of all these ideas whirling in my mind I stood up, about to bound downstairs to my room, when a now familiar sensation overcame me. 

I felt as if I was being tossed around by a force much more powerful than myself, and my surroundings rippled into a distorted blur, sounds becoming muffled, exhaustion pushing on me like a weight across my entire body, before everything refocused and became sharply clear. 

It was like I had been transported, back to the museum. The smell and sight of Patel’s office flooding my senses. Again, I was able to see the other me, dream-me, from an outside perspective, her legs excitedly bouncing up and down, as she sat on a crate bent forwards over a journal entry, dated 1885. I walked around, still finding the experience of seeing myself like this unsettling, trying to see the diary entry better, even now my curiosity for history being spiked. 

The door of the office was shoved open, and both of me looked up to see the Professor come into the room, an amused look on his face. “Ah, so you are in here.” He commented, moving over to his desk, and bending down to open up one of his drawers. 

Dream-me’s face lit up, her cheeks flushed and her voice sounding excited as she exclaimed, “It’s her. It’s definitely her! It has to be. I know, it seems impossible, but it’s definitely her!” 

The Professor smiled good naturedly, still rummaging through his draw, and asked in his signature accent “What seems impossible?” 

“The photo I found ages ago of that female warrior, well I couldn’t figure out who she was then, but this week I found another picture of her taken by this explorer, most famous for becoming insane after his return from his last expedition, a little sad when you think about it. But anyways I went and asked for his journals to be sent over from Gotham’s archives, and found the corresponding journal entry for the day he took the picture.”

The professor’s head had slowly come up to look at dream-me, a look of amazement on his weathered features. 

Dream-me stood up, reaching behind her to triumphantly hold up today’s newspaper, all the while saying “And this is the really insane part, I woke up this morning only to find, that today’s Daily Planet has the very same woman on the front cover! I mean, it’s unbelievable, except that she looks like she hasn’t aged a day, has the same armor, trident, even the neck-pendant! The reports of her appearance are far too similar to be dismissed. Both of them report that she just rose up from the water, a few hundred miles from the beach, somehow rode a wave to the shore, and started trying to talk to everyone in some strange language no one’s ever heard of. I mean, how’s that for an entrance!”

The Professor quietly moved around to my side, and took the paper from my hands, solemnly, without even seeming to really look at the picture or read the report, he shook his head. “Jamie, you need to stop. You’re right, it’s not possible.” 

Perplexed at his gentle rebuffs, dream-me asked somewhat offended, “What do you mean, it’s all right there in that article.”

Patel shook his head, an obvious tinge of pleading in his voice, “Jamie, we’ve talked about this. You can’t go around believing things like that. It’s just not possible. You’re relying on the account of a journal entry, that you already admitted was written by a madman, and if you think she’s the same woman, she’d have to be almost 200 years old, even though she looks the picture of health and hasn’t aged a day. These are the facts Jamie.”

“Well ok then, but how do explain today's news report, about her riding in on a wave, and how she looks exactly the same.” Dream-me challenged. 

“Comparing a photo taken from the 1800’s with a picture taken from someone’s cell-phone is hardly indisputable evidence. And as for their report, it’s probably some drunk fisherman’s story, which has made the headlines because everyone's getting a little tired of stories stating how Superman saved Lois Lane, yet again.” 

“Why is it so hard to believe that some kind of ocean warrior is real, when everyone finds it so easy to believe that an alien from space lives in Metropolis?” Drea-me asked exasperated; a point I remembered having made only a few days ago myself. 

“Because one is an alien, and the other is, what exactly? An Atlantean? You’ve been chasing after a fable for the last year now, and it’s time to let it go. Trying to connect anything back to this theory that you have about Atlantis, even if you aren’t calling it that, is only going to get you labelled a lunatic by the academic community.” His mouth was set in a stubborn line, and I knew that meant that this conversation was finished; there would be no arguing the issue further. 

His bushy eyebrows rose, as he changed the subject none too subtly, “There’s a man out there waiting for you by the name of Clark Kent. He sounded upset. I offered him some cheese, but it didn’t seem to calm him down. He wanted to talk to you.” 

“What? Oh.” Dream-me seemed flustered and surprised, “You mean he’s been waiting out there the whole time?” The professor only nodded, folding up the newspaper and pointedly dropping it in the bin beside his desk. 

Dream-me raced over to one of the crates, picking up a polished helmet, apparently trying to look at her reflection, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, made a face and left the office. I followed, a part of me undeniably wanting just to be near Superman again; his company always restoring a certain level of calmness back to me. 

Sure enough, after Dream-me had walked down the corridor, I saw Clark leaning against the wall, today’s issue of The Daily Planet clutched in his hands. He looked anything but relaxed, his jaw tensed, his brows furrowed, his hands moving from his hair, to the paper, to pushing his glasses up his nose even though they didn’t need it. 

Clark stepped forwards to meet me, his gaze tense and probing, “You think she’s the same woman, an Atlantean?” He asked urgently.

“Uhm, well I presume you mean the woman from the picture, and I don’t really believe she’s an Atlantean, at least I think I don’t, well maybe. Uhm, how did you know that?” Dream-me stuttered out.

Clark looked down the corridor in the direction of the office and distractedly stated, “I overheard your conversation.”

Dream-me frowned unsure how Clark had managed to hear the distance from the hall to the office, but listened to Clark as he continued, “Lois wrote this story.” He stated, as if that should explain why he seemed upset. 

“And what, you’re jealous that her story got on the front page and yours didn’t?” Dream-me teased. 

“No, you don’t understand. After Lois heard the stories, she wrote the report, and last night she told my boss that she was going to the facility that the woman was being held at to have a follow up interview, and today I can’t find her. I can’t find her anywhere, and I can’t find the woman either.” 

I felt unease begin to build in me, I’d never seen Superman this uncomposed. Dream-me put a hand out to rest on Clark’s shoulder, “She can’t have been missing for too long Clark, she’s probably just out of reception or something. I actually met with Lois last night, and she seemed fine.” 

Clark looked surprised, “What, what do you mean you met with Lois? Why? What about?” 

I stood watching Clark and the other version of me interact, wrapping my arms around myself for some kind of comfort. Unsure of where all this was going. 

Dream-me hesitated, shrugging a little sheepishly, “Apparently my reputation in the academic world already preceded me, because she new about my theory about Cape Sounion, and for some reason she was asking me all about it.”

Both Clark’s hands came to rest on her shoulders, the paper dropping to the floor with a quiet thud, “What did you tell her Jamie?” 

Dream-me seemed a little uncomfortable, either from Clark’s urgency or his close proximity, and wouldn’t meet his gaze as she said, blushing, “Only what I’ve told you.” 

Clark seemed to sway on his feet, and Dream-me questioned, “Why Clark? Why does that matter? Do you think that Lois believes the woman’s an Atlantean too?” 

Clark drew back from Dream-me, and closed his eyes wearily, as if she’d given him the worst possible news. I could see his adam’s apple moving, as he sort for the right words. “The science facility dedicated to researching abnormal events and extraordinary beings, where the Atlantean was being held, is owned by Lex Luthor.” 

Dream-me stated confused, “I don’t see why that’s important.” 

“Jamie!” I heard Clark say, as I felt two arms shaking my shoulders, “Jamie!” Clark said again, his voice growing clear and then muffled, as nausea sweat-over me, and I felt like Ice cold water was dumped over me. 

With a gasp, my surroundings wavered and collapsed, Clark and Dream-me disappeared from my sight, and I felt like I was immersed totally in freezing water, everything black and cold. This was different from before, usually my body felt buoyant, and almost floated out of the end of my dream, pulled by a noise or sound from the real world, back into reality. 

Now I felt a crushing pressure from every direction, and I couldn’t move. I remembered the way it sounded, as I child playing in the pool, hearing the warped sounds of my friend’s laughter, watching my dog swimming slowly across a flowing stream, his slow but steady paddle impeded by the flow of the water. I heard a sound through the water, a voice, firm and yet desperate. 

“To the female who has fallen of the tall building, the other one, she tells me that you know the one who is not dumb, who is a scholar of old things. Tell him to use his medallion, he will be able to warn my kin of the danger. For the Luther is coming.” 

The woman’s message began to repeat, and the pressure grew firmer still, until I was sure that something inside me was about to break, the pain almost unbearable. Then, another voice filled my senses, his voice began washing away the crushing weight from my body, lifting me again to the shimmering surface of reality. 

With a gasp my eyes flew open, my body racked with uncontrollable shivers. “Jamie, are you alright?” Superman had crouched down, my back resting against his knees, his voice concerned, and his hands warm on my shoulders. I could barely see him in the darkness of the night, but I could feel his reassuring presence. 

“Yeah. I’m all right I think.” I huffed out between pants. “What happened?” I asked confused and tired. 

I suspected but couldn’t see that Superman shook his head, “I don’t know. I was hoping you might be able to tell me. I found you lying on the ground. Nothing’s broken, although I think you had a blood nose. Did you trip over?”

I half laughed, “Maybe. But I don’t think so... I… I had the strangest dream again, I…dreamed that...” I thought of Clark from my dream, the ease with which the Dream version of me and him could talk to each other, and the hesitation I felt now to even confide in Superman about my strange dreams. The ache to know him like that again, with the memories of that friendship so fresh, suddenly felt almost as painful as being stuck between my dream and reality. Which was saying a lot, because that wasn’t fun. 

I wished that I could see his face, “Superman, what’s your name? I mean I don’t know anything about you, not really anyway…. And I just… I just want to call you something that’s…. Real.” 

“Here, let me help you sit up.” Superman offered, and with unsteady feet and his help, I managed to maneuver my way back to my sunchair. Superman picked up my doona from the floor and wrapped it around my back and shoulders, but he didn’t sit down next to me. Standing a little distance from me, his expression still hidden by the starless night, only the ‘S’ Symbol was semi-lit by the faint glow of the neon lights of the city. 

“My name is Kal El.” He said softly. 

My hopes rose and fell when I heard his name. At first I thought that he was going to say “Clark Kent”, confirming that my dream wasn’t just a strange hallucination. But he didn’t; although, with growing suspicion I thought that in every way that counted, he really was the Clark Kent from my dreams. 

“Kal El.” I whispered, trying out the name. It was strong, and even though it wasn’t Clark Kent, it still felt real. I smiled. “Thank you for telling me your name, Kal.” 

“You’re welcome Jamie.” I imagined he smiled back.

There was a long moment of silence, both of us falling into our own thoughts. “You sure you’re ok?” Kal asked. 

“I think, maybe I’m just tired.” I lied, believing more than ever, that my dreams were somehow connected to, maybe even caused by the coin. 

“How is he?” Kal asked, referring to Harry. 

I took in a shaky breath, and tried to answer, but there was only a quiet sob in place of my words. 

Kal was by my side without hesitation, sitting with me on the sunchair, his arm wrapping around my shoulders, and pulling me in close to his side. The other came to rest on my hair, as my body shook with soundless sobs. He sat with me a long time, as I slowly managed to explain that he had been right; Harry would never walk again. 

Eventually I could hold the self-loathing in no more. In the dark it was easy to talk, and so much harder to keep quiet, words welling up from my heart and slipping out over my lips. Confessing what I had said to Harry, all the thoughtless decisions I had made that now left Harry unable to walk, still unconscious in a hospital bed. And he listened, without interrupting. I felt connected to Kal in that moment, his breath hitching as I told him about the day at the museum, his fingers clenching and unclenching in my hair. 

“It’s all my fault.” I whispered, thankful that at last my tears had stopped. I must look a mess, but I felt no embarrassment or need to cover up in front of Kal. I absentmindedly wiped my eyes and nose on my doona, which he either didn’t mind or didn’t comment on.

A pained noise, a mixture between a pent-up breath, and a heartfelt sigh issued from Kal, and in a husky voice he said, “No Jamie, it’s not. What happened to Harry is not your fault. Everything that’s happened to you, you need to know it’s not your fault.” 

There was earnestness to his words, but also something else. Something I was unaccustomed to hearing from him. I tilted my head around, so that I stared, inches away, at the side of his face. Watching as open emotions flickered across his features, his brows lowered, his forehead creasing, and the curl on his forehead being gently ruffled by the wind. A calmness began to settle over me, as I waited for him to continue speaking. 

In a voice, filled with what I realised was grief, Superman confessed, much as I had moments before to him, his guilt. “It’s not your fault Jamie. It’s mine. You can’t be blamed for any of this. You couldn’t know what was going to happen….. But I did. Even though it’s all different now, I still knew.”

He looked out at the city buildings, wrestling with his thoughts, as I struggled to understand what he meant by them, “I thought, if I just left her alone, kept my distance from her this time, she’d be safe. That my judgment wouldn’t be affected by my feelings for her.” He sighed, “That much at least, worked out.” I thought of Clark from my dreams, and how worried he had been about Lois, and wonder if it was possible that Kal was talking about this woman I had never met.

“But now…” He tilted his head to the side, so that we held gazes, and I wished that this moment, a mixture of vulnerability and intimacy, could last forever. “It’s not her that I’m worried about.” 

With a hint of laughter vibrating through his chest, his rich voice listed off, “You and your love for languages, your cardigans, caramel coffee, and your laughter… that laughter…” His voice deepened all the more, “At the museum, that was all I could see, all I could think about...and because of that… I didn’t see Harry. I was caught off guard, because I was so focused on….” He looked away from me now, and just like that, I could begin to feel Kal emotionally pulling away from me, even if he hadn’t physically pulled away yet. 

His voice was full of scorn directed at himself, “I never expected…. I made the same mistake as last time, and it almost cost Harry his life, just like it cost….” He cut himself off, his jaw clenching. His arms pulled away from me, and he cleared his voice, “I never expected that after L…” He stopped short again, before he finished the woman’s name. “I made myself stay away from her this time around. But I never expected…” 

Kal stood up hurridely, as if wanting to distance himself as much from me as possible in the small space of the roof, “No one else is going to get hurt because of me. I’ll find this Atlantean, and I’ll get there before he does….” 

Now I stood up, “What? What did you say about an Atlantean?” A jolt of excitement at his words, the doona slipping forgotten around my knees. 

Kal’s eyes widened momentarily, and then they went very still; still like a statue; still like the very distant persona of a Superhero; a being that was detached from the world, from their feelings.

“Jamie. You need to forget what I said. It’s not important.” 

I scoffed, “Of course it’s important, she’s what ties all of this together, I’m not sure how yet, but I know that if I can just find her, talk to her, then…”

Superman’s voice was a ruff bark, “No.”

I blinked in surprise, staring at Superman, silhouetted by the back glow from the light pollution. “What do you mean, no?” I asked bewildered by his commanding response.

“Stay out of this Jamie. Just leave it alone. Forget about Atlantis, forget about what I said.” His voice was uncharastically stern, as if he needed to discipline me. 

I shook my head back at him, “You know I can’t do that. If you’re going to find an Atlantean and talk to them, then I need to come with you. I just know that if I can ask ….”   
Superman cut me off again, “I said no, Jamie. You’re not coming with me, and I won’t help you with this.” 

Now there was anger in my voice, “Kal, you don’t understand…” Superman shook his head, and turned his back to me, “I’ve been having these dreams, and I believe that the coins the Professor gave me…” Superman began to float upwards, the fact that he could so casually defy all rules of gravity still awed me, but I quickly recovered, “What are you doing? I’m not finished talking yet.” I said in a heated tone, my hands coming to rest on my hips in a disapproving stance.

Superman still wouldn’t look at me. “I’m warning you, for your own safety, stay out of this Jamie.” His voice was measured and without menace or humour. I was so confused by his unusual behaviour. It wasn’t like him to be controlling like this, just to tell people what they could and couldn’t do, without giving any explanation. All intimacy from moments ago replaced by his distant, cool demeanor, and my agitated confusion.

He floated higher and further out, so that he no longer levitated above my building roof, “Kal”, I yelled indignantly. “You can’t just fly away when someone’s talking to you!” Now he did turn to face me, and I could see the shadowed, but still distinct smile on his face, “Yes Jamie, I can.” 

Then he turned and shot off, “Kal! Kal!” I yelled in anger, “You can’t just fly away from your problems like this! You...you… stinker!” I took in an angered breath of air, still yelling into the empty night sky, “And now he’s gone and I’m yelling at nothing!”, turning and kicking at my doona, because I didn’t want to hurt my foot kicking at the chair. ‘Cause that’s just how tough I am.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you laugh? Do you want me to continue?


End file.
